Dark Seed of the Soul
by GeneticallyPredisposedChicken
Summary: In the Sequel to "Crimson Sky", District 9's Skye Holdrege has won the 98th Hunger Games. However, between facing the Capitol's harsh spotlight and the lurking fears of her own scarred mind, this victor's journey has just begun. Follow her path from the snowy plains of District 9 to the lights of the Capitol as Skye fights to hold on to everything she holds dear.
1. Winter's Dream

_**Author's Note: Welcome to the future of Panem, 25 years after Katniss and Peeta fell in the 74**__**th**__** Hunger Games, long since forgotten by all. The Capitol has evolved into a monolithic, powerful entity, and as its grip on the 12 Districts tightens, the Hunger Games intensify – the call for blood growing louder and louder. **_

_**This is the sequel to "The Blood of a Crimson Sky," where District 9's 15 year-old Skye Holdrege walked away from the 98**__**th**__** Hunger Games as a victor, broken but alive after a harrowing trial of violence and terror. Skye's memories of the arena still haunt her in her post-Games life, and with the Capitol turning its eyes upon her – and a new, daunting horror rising out of the darkness – Skye's journey of tears, fear, love, and hope has only just begun.**_

_**Suzanne Collins owns the Hunger Games, Panem, the 12 Districts, Finnick, Johanna, Thresh, and other original characters, items, and themes. Original stuff is mine. Enjoy! If you have questions, comments, suggestions, constructive criticism, or anything else, reviews and PMs are always welcome! Rated T for blood, violence, frightening imagery, and dark/suggestive themes.  
**_

* * *

**District 9 | Year of the 99****th**** Hunger Games**

* * *

Everything in District 9 freezes during the winter.

Houses, fields, people, hearts, nothing's spared from the snow and cold of the plains. A blanket of white covers the large houses of the Victor's Village where I now live. It's always quiet here – District 9 only has three living victors, including me - but the snow makes everything silent. It's like some horrible demon has swooped down and sucked all the noise and joy from the world. The winter night watches over this quiet land with a dark, overcast pallor. It's enough to make anyone wish for summer to return, but I know what that season will bring.

The Hunger Games.

I pull a thick, furry blue blanket over my face as I curl up in my bed, trying to ward the memories out of my head. The Games are the _last_ thing I want to think of. Even now, five months after I won the 98th Games and returned home to District 9, I can't keep the thoughts and pictures from creeping into my dreams.

_The quiet, stoic girl with the green eyes from District 7, being pulled apart by the tentacled mutt. The strange boy from District 3, pleading with me to kill him and put an end to his misery. The machine-like killer from District 2, so detached, yet so lethal – nearly ending my life by her sword during the Game's finale, before the same mutt that killed my ally returned to take her out._

_The boy…the boy from District 4, who saved me from the cave, protected me from dangerous tributes, and carried me through an arena I couldn't have made it out of on my own._

Why do they keep coming back? Why do they plague my mind?

I know the answer to that. I don't _want_ to forget the boy from District 4 – Mako, the ally I never thought I'd have. I don't want to throw away the girl from District 7, Autumn, and the friendship we forged. I wish they were here now.

Forget it, I'm not getting back to sleep. Not tonight. I throw aside my blanket, frustrated at my mind as I stumble through the dark to my bathroom. The ornate bathroom, sporting a full bath (with real hot water!) and an actual toilet, is a far cry from the closet with a water pump that made up the bathroom in my father's house – the house I'll never go back to now. My older brother, Sage, still lives there six days out of the week. He's a fieldhand, but even in the winter with the fields dead, he and his fellow workers have to tend to crop stores in the landowners' silos and granaries. I don't get to see him as often as I like, but it could be worse: He doesn't work at the processing yards and factories, like the poor majority of District 9's workers do. People still die – at alarming rates – in those horrible places, all for just a subsistence living.

"You're depressing yourself again," I say out loud to no one in particular, leaning against the bathroom wall and looking at myself in the mirror. "Stop it, Skye."

A stranger looks back at me. The girl in the mirror's still Skye Holdrege, aged 16, with blue eyes and her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. That's never changed. What's beneath that face has changed, however. Gone is the optimistic and innocent girl from before the Games; in her place is one who dreads the day when the Capitol calls her back to serve, a day quickly approaching.

In just two weeks, I'll have to face the Victory Tour – the annual procession six months between Games when the previous victor tours the districts in a "celebration" of their merits. That'd be bad enough – having to see all those faces from districts with children who never came home – but something chilling hides in my gut.

_Yellow eyes laughing at me from the darkness, cold fingers playing across my skin. "You're a useful tool…a lovable victor indeed, Skye. My people will want more of you, and I am only too happy to oblige. I have my uses for you…"_

I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. I don't want to remember President Nero's chilling words to me after I woke up from the Games. The leader of Panem and the Capitol was the first man who spoke to me after I had returned from the arena – and in elaborate words, he'd told me that I'm little more than a pawn of his own goals and ideals.

I'm at the Capitol's mercy. Their tool. Their slave. What that entails…I don't want to imagine.

"Why can't I go back to sleep," I groan, placing my head on the marble bathroom countertop. "Ugh."

_Clank!_

I bolt upright. Something's making noise downstairs…

No. _Not this again, Skye. There's nothing there. There are no tributes trying to kill you. You're not back in the jungle being hunted by the girl from District 1._

_Clank!_

I'm not imagining things. Not this time. I grab a candle from the counter, lighting it with a match and nervously making my way out of my bathroom.

It's probably nothing – a street rat probably broke a window or a loose board and crawled in, looking for an escape from the snow. Rats are the size of small dogs and mean as a Peacekeeper, but nothing I can't handle. Heck, I can give to one of the butcher shops in the Town Square tomorrow and feel good about a little charity. Someone can have something to eat, courtesy of a dumb animal rooting around my house in the middle of the night. Maybe that'll brighten my day.

I tread slowly down my stairs, careful not to make a sound as I look around in the candlelight. There – small, wet, dirty footprints leave a few tracks on the wooden floor before tapering out. Must be a rat.

I step down onto the bottom floor, looking left into the entrance hall. Strangely, there's no broken window or board – but the door's wide open, letting in the frigid breeze of the night. I dismiss it – I probably forgot to lock it and the winds blew it open. Still, I'm feeling nerves creep up again; the kind of feeling that comes when something isn't right.

Nothing in my living room. I peek into my kitchen, holding my candle just behind the wall to conceal the light. What I see sends a shiver down my spine – and it's not from the cold wind.

_Someone's in there._

A tall, thin person – gangly, almost, with skinny arms and a malnourished torso – has one leg up on my kitchen counter, rooting through my pantry. An open can of something – _it smells like beans_ – stands open on the counter as the intruder looks for more.

I swing around behind the wall, breathing fast and low. _Okay, Skye. It's probably just some hungry, homeless person with nothing left to lose. Don't panic. Get something to protect yourself with and confront them. If they're really just looking for food, fine. If not…well…you can defend yourself. You're a victor._

I step just outside my open door, grabbing a brick lying on my patio. It's been there forever – leftover from construction many years ago, I guess – but it's as good an improvised weapon as I can think of. It'll scare away any intruder, at least; it's not like anyone besides the Peacekeepers has weapons in District 9.

_Breathe, Skye_. I inhale sharply, hiding behind the wall as I listen to the intruder in my kitchen. The person's not making _normal_ noises, instead letting out what sounds like a continuous gulping of some sort. I raise the brick in my right hand, holding out my candle in my left as I swallow my nerves and turn into the kitchen.

"Hello?" I ask, shining the candlelight into the room.

The intruder turns. It's no homeless person.

A pale, skinny figure turns around and stares at me, but it's face is no human face. An elongated, hairless head is home to a wide, gaping mouth full of jagged teeth, with a mix of a goopy, white, gooey fluid and bean sauce coating its jaws. Two vacant, black eye sockets lie obscured beneath a fleshy coating that covers its faces; besides that, the thing has no ears, eyes, or nose. Long arms end in thin, talon-like fingers that grasp a half-opened can of beans; given this…_thing_'s severely malnourished and bony frame, it looks like it can use the food.

It's not a person, however. I've seen something like this before…back in the Hunger Games.

It's a mutt.

"_Aah!_" I scream shrilly, dropping my candle and brick in surprise and fright.

"_Waaa!_" the mutt shrieks like a banshee back at me, grabbing the beans and hightailing it towards my living room. _"Waa-aaah!_"

I bolt out of my house, slamming open the front door and run screaming into the snow-covered street. I sprint down the Victor's Village barefoot and covered in just my light nightgown, ignoring the freezing cold and wet snow until I reach a house two doors down. Another victor lives here – the oldest of my two mentors and winner of the 75th Games, Omaha. I leap up his porch, running into the wall of his house and pounding my fists on his door.

"Omaha!" I shriek. "Omaha! Help!"

My mentor's at the door in less than ten seconds, flinging it open and pulling me inside. He slams the door with his thud, turning me around and putting his back to it: "Skye! What is it?"

"It was in my house!" I exhale, panting my words out. "It was right there in my house!"

"What was?"

"The mutt! A mutt!"

Omaha lets out a long breath, smiling ruefully and running a hand through his matted black hair: "Heavens, Skye, you scared me – I thought it was Peacekeepers trying to arrest you, or some other serious situation."

"Omaha, there's a _mutt in my house! _It's serious!"

"Skye – "

"It was in my kitchen! It was…_eating_ or something!"

"Skye!" Omaha cuts me off, gripping my shoulder with his hand. "Look…sometimes these things happen after the Games. You've mentioned seeing your allies and the other tributes in your dreams, or other things from the arena…sometimes, our minds start to blend dreams and reality, memories with the present, as a means of healing."

I look up at him silently, taking a minute before replying, "You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"I do not think you're crazy."

"Can we just…" I stop. I must _sound_ crazy to him. "Can we just go back and look? I don't want to go back alone if it's still there."

"That's fine," he nods, picking up a flashlight from a nearby table and opening the door.

I trudge back through the snow towards my house, Omaha in tow. I'm angry at myself – _of course there's no mutt!_ Omaha's been a victor nearly a quarter of a century; he knows much more than me. Why am I suddenly so shocked that I'm seeing things – especially after the human mutt in the arena's cave nearly killed me?

_You ARE insane, Skye. Or, at least, you're getting there._

I let Omaha open my house's door, stepping into the hall slowly. Still, I'm not willing to let this go – not until I know for sure I'm crazy: "Look, on the floor – there's tracks! It left footprints or something!"

"All I see is a brick and a candle on fire," Omaha remarks, stamping out the candle with his foot. "I assume you dropped those?"

I nod, peeking around my door into the house. The living room's empty – the mutt ran this way, but there's no sign of prints or anything else.

"Look in the kitchen," I plead. "It was making noise in there."

When Omaha shines his light around, however, it's empty. A pan I'd left in the sink is overturned on the countertop, but besides the pantry doors being open, that's it. Nothing else is out of place.

Omaha's nice enough to search upstairs with me as well, but it's clear he's not buying my story. _I'm_ not even buying my story at this point.

"Skye," he says patiently, his expression sympathetic. "Do you want me to stay here tonight?"

I feel embarrassed, heat rushing to my cheeks as I shake my head: "No…no, it's fine. Fine. I'll just…go back to bed, or something."

"Don't feel ashamed about the things you see."

"I don't. Feel bad," I lie. "I just…want some space. Alone. Please."

He gives me a sad look, patting me on the head and bidding me goodnight as he leaves. I close the door behind him, falling down to the floor and pulling my knees up to my chest. What's happening to me? Why is my mind playing tricks on me, trying to convince me I'm still battling everything I left behind in the arena? All I want to do is put that behind me…but deep inside, the feelings, the thoughts, the memories, keep bubbling back up like a pot boiling over. I can't keep them down.

I sigh, picking up the brick and tossing it back outside. Might as well tidy up – I close the pantry door, placing my pan back in the sink and my candle on the kitchen table. _Stupid, stupid, stupid girl_.

Something still smells strange. I take one last look into my living room, peeking behind the long plush couch in the room.

Hidden in the darkness, a pool of beans settles on my floor.


	2. Change

A sharp rapping on my door wakes me from my disturbed sleep. Ghostly white sunshine filters in through my window. It's the mere sliver of light that reaches the ground here in the dead of winter, veiled by blanket-like gray cloud cover that deadens this season.

The knocking grows louder as I push myself out of my bed, groggily clinging to my frozen arms as I make my way down the stairs. I stop suddenly: Down there – just at the bottom of the stairs – I saw footprints last night. _Mutt_ prints. There's nothing here today, but that doesn't stop the chills from returning. _Am I going crazy? Did something really break in?_

I ignore the knocking for a moment, peeking into my living room and behind the couch. _Nothing. Nothing there_.

With a sigh I yank the front door open. My best friend in District 9, the lanky, sandy-haired, 17 year-old boy named Reed, stands waiting with his hands in the pockets of his ratty coat and a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

"Hey, Skye, I –" Reed starts, pausing after noticing my nightgown and disheveled hair. "Maybe I should wait for you to get dressed."

"What is it?" I ask groggily. "I just woke up."

"Should I come back later?"

"No – I mean, I'm already awake, so…do you want to come in? It's cold outside."

Reed steps inside the doorway as I step back, brushing the snow falling off his hair from my nightgown. He's still getting used to this fancy new house I live in. It's a far cry from my father's home and Reed's family's house; most people in the district can't even imagine living in something like this.

"Actually warm in here," he says with a grin. "Nice on a day like this."

"Did you just come to be warm?" I ask.

"No," he answers awkwardly. "Look, uh, Skye…Shrike and I are worried about you. We don't see you very much anymore – ever since the Games ended and you came back, you've been huddled up in here almost every day. We see you maybe every other week, and it seems a lot less often than that."

"Reed," I sigh, leaning against the bannister of the staircase. "You have to work, and Shrike looks after her sister. I have….things…to do, too. We can't just run around together like we're still kids."

"We are still kids, Skye. You're 16. Shrike and I are 17."

"You know what I mean!" I say, frustrated. "Things are different."

"And what are these things you have to do, Skye?" Reed presses me, unwilling to hear my excuses. "You don't go on your little tour until next week. The Capitol's left you alone. Nobody sees your other two fellow victors. You're cooped up in here with all your thoughts – that's not healthy."

"Things," I mutter, turning away.

Reed's abrupt confrontation leaves me wanting to cry. He's right, of course – I don't do much of anything; haven't since I came back. What's there to do? I'll never have to work. My brother works six days a week; Reed does too, and Shrike helps our around her family's property as the daughter of one of District 9's wealthy landowners. Omaha sticks to himself; I have a feeling he likes the company of his thoughts. And Selene, my other fellow victor? She gets drunk, picks fights with low-lifes of the districts, and generally annoys everyone. Not exactly the type of company I want to keep.

So it's me, myself, and my head, left together to reminisce on memories better left forgotten. What does Reed expect?

_He expects you're crazy,_ a sarcastic voice in my head answers. _And judging by last night, he's right_.

"Lemme get dressed," I murmur, breaking free from my thoughts. "Then we can…talk about things."

I hurry up the stairs, careful not to look Reed in the eye as I do so. I slam my bedroom's door behind me, falling onto my bed and plunging my face into my pillow. I couldn't run away from my problems forever – couldn't hide, couldn't ignore what I was doing to others. Sage has already tried to coax me out of my shell unsuccessfully; I should have expected _someone_ to be a little more direct eventually. I just don't want to deal with it. I want to see me friends and live life again…but doing so while battling my thoughts isn't as easy as I imagine.

I throw on an old sweater and pants, relics of the life I lived before the Hunger Games. They're all I can feel comfortable around when I'm with Reed and Shrike; the richer clothing I've picked up since becoming a victor feels unnatural unless I'm alone.

"C'mon," Reed says as I step out of my room. "Let's go for a walk. The snow's nice, and you need to get out."

"It's freezing out there," I offer up one last protest.

"And you have a jacket right here," Reed fingers a brown fur coat hanging on the bannister – something I bought for the tough winter. I may not _like_ the Capitol clothing, but it does a better job keeping me warm than anything I had before.

Realizing he won't budge, I toss on the jacket and follow him out the door. It's hardly warmed up from last night as peeping rays of pale sunshine bounce brightly off the snow. Flurries trickle down from the scattered cloud cover, dusting the Victor's Village in a fresh sheet of white.

A bright flash of red breaks the peaceful winter scene, however. On the front wall of the last house in the Village, an abandoned home never inhabited, someone's painted an angry message in crimson block letters:

_AGENTS OF THE OPPRESSORS_

"What?" I gasp at the crudely-scrawled accusation. Someone painted that between when I dragged Omaha to my house and when I woke up – it wasn't there last night. "Is someone…we're _victors_, not _Peacekeepers!_"

"Just ignore it," Reed grabs my arm, pulling me down the street.

"Why would someone do that?"

"Look around, Skye," Reed explains patiently. "Nobody's well-off besides the landowners like Shrike's family…or the Peacekeepers. It's a tough winter, people need to blow off steam, and they look for an easy target to vent at."

"So they just wait for me to win before they 'vent?'" I ask, angry for no real reason. "I wouldn't have done something like that even before I won."

"Well, that other boy…" Reed says. "The guy who went in with you? His family worked at the processing yards. They knew a lot of the other underclass, and, well…you won, and your dad's a field hand, which makes you better off than them. You victors don't really show up much besides Selene getting drunk and trying to get in fights, so troublemakers looking for something to do can easily pick on you. You guys have access to the Capitol and whatnot."

"So it's 'us victors?'"

"No, Skye! C'mon, don't do that…you know I lo- uh, you know we're best friends. I don't agree with painting stupid threats on houses any more than you do."

I give Reed a long look. What'd he stop himself from saying just there before stating the obvious – that we're friends? Between his defense of these people and his insistence on getting me out and about, I'm left feeling confused.

"Let's just go," I grumble, sticking my hands in my pockets.

_Is he the one confusing you?_ the voice in my head starts up again. _You think he's the one who's changing? Reed's always been one to defend the little guy, Skye. It's you who's changing. Just six months ago, you considered Selene and Omaha to be outsiders. You weren't any different before you won the Hunger Games. Who's really changed here?_

I decide to test that question. There's a lot about what happened during the Games that I haven't figured out yet, particularly about how District 9 handled my victory.

"Reed?" I ask as we walk down the snow-covered avenue towards the Town Square. "When I was…gone…what'd you guys do?"

"What'd we do?" he laughs, stopping and staring off at the white plains. During the summer, they'd be covered in golden fields of wheat and barley; today, they're nothing but a bed of snow. "We watched the Games. Everyone does. They showed a lot of you and your allies; the other kids were either huddling around smoky fires or were the volunteer kids bickering about who would get to kill people. Sometimes I'd sit with Shrike and watch in her home; she didn't take them too well. There wasn't really much we could do. It wasn't like we were in them, after all."

"Shrike and I fought about your allies. She thought they were good; I thought they were gonna kill you in your sleep. Guess she was right, huh?"

"You thought they were gonna kill me?" I ask. "Why'd you think that?"

"Okay, maybe not the girl from District 7," he shrugs. "Probably a bad call on my behalf. But the guy from District 4? I mean, come on, he was a volunteer, one of the toughest-looking guys in the arena…I was convinced he'd murder you when you weren't looking. I was afraid you two would be the last two standing and he'd kill you before you could defend yourself. S'pose the girl from District 1 did you a favor."

I step back and look him in the eye, my response measured and soft: "She didn't do me a favor."

"If she didn't kill him, the girl from 2 would have – or it would have been you. Skye, no matter what that guy said, you know deep down he wanted to go home, too. Dying's not in any tribute's plans. You would have been in your way. He was in yours."

"Mako wasn't in my way," I retort angrily. "He cared about me. He and Autumn were better than anyone else in the arena. They didn't just stare at a screen and hope I came home. They actually helped me."

"Don't do this; you're just hurting yourself," Reed throws his hands up in the air exasperatedly. "If you can't get over everything in the arena, you're just going to turn into all those victors who turn to drugs or whatever. This is why you stay inside all the time, Skye. You have to move on."

"No I don't!" I yell at him. I don't know why I'm angry at Reed: He did nothing wrong, and he's been my best friend for much longer than Autumn and Mako ever were. But his cold analysis of the Games – without any idea of what Mako meant to me – make me want to strike back at his words. "I'm going to the Square. Don't follow me."

I trudge off through the snow, refusing to look back at Reed as he shouts, "Look, I'm sorry, Skye. I don't mean to make you mad. I care about you, too."

"Leave me alone!" I yell.

_What are you doing?_ I think as I walk down the avenue, kicking snow out of my way. _You're pushing away everyone who cares – everyone who's alive, anyway. Mako can't help you now. He's dead. Dead. Reed's not. Reed, Shrike, Sage – they're all trying to help you. They can't if you just scream at them and stamp your feet in anger. Reed's right: You're just turning into one of those other victors who everyone points and laughs at. Just like Selene._

Reed's right, but I can't let go…I just _can't_. He doesn't understand. Nobody who hasn't gone through the Games can. When I need a sympathetic ear, I'm confronted only with suggestion after suggestion about how to get out and enjoy life – like it's a switch I can just turn on and off. None of these people knows the cold blanket that descends after the Games; the vacuum that sucks out all the happiness and vivacity, leaving me wishing for nothing more than each day to end as quickly as it begins. I'm left to struggle against my demons alone, just as I have ever since Mako died and I was forced to battle Tethys by myself.

_At least you had the Capitol's mutt to help you there, Skye_. Great. The last person truly to help me wasn't even a person; it was a squid mutt with a penchant for tearing people in half.

The snow-capped, boxy stone buildings of the Town Square don't lift my spirits. The crimson paint splashed on the side of the small apothecary in town _really_ doesn't help: Apparently, the Victor's Village wasn't the only target of last night's vandal. Two Peacekeepers are busy scrubbing the red block letters off of the stone, but I can still see the "_HOARDERS_" message the vandal left behind.

Several dozen people crowd around the entrance to the square, some standing out in the open while others group together under the overhangs of small storefronts. I walk up unnoticed under the yellow light of the Square's bakery just as I get a clear view at what everyone's interested in.

The vandal didn't get away. A crimson-painted body swings from the gallows in the Square, his tongue hanging from his mouth and his eyes bulging open in pain. He's been dead for some time – hanged by the Peacekeepers for painting. I can't agree with what the disheveled-looking older man did, but to _kill_ him for it?

An assortment of Peacekeepers line up in the Square, ensuring that the crowd around me doesn't do anything drastic. These people aren't looking for trouble, however; they're just observers, sympathizing with the latest victim of the Capitol's cruel justice.

An older woman bursts forward from the crowd, stumbling onto her knees in the snow about ten meters from the Peacekeepers. She's covered in scarlet paint and some sort of liquid – an oily, thick substance slathered from head to toe. One of the Peacekeepers raises a nightstick, shouting at her to get back – but she has other ideas.

Horrifyingly, the woman pulls out a match, strikes it on a rock, and jams it against her arm.

Members of the crowd shriek and shout as flames engulf the woman. She kneels solemnly as the fire storms across her body, her face serene and peaceful as she burns in front of the Peacekeepers.

The Capitol's police don't wait, instead advancing right past the woman towards the crowd around me. The others run from the Square, fleeing in all directions to avoid any repercussions – but I can't move. I'm stuck, paralyzed as I watch the woman's mindless self-immolation. Her head's bowed towards the hanging man as she burns, her palms stretched out on her legs and her shoulders slumped in resignation.

A man bumps into me as he runs for cover, dashing to get away before the Peacekeepers round up anybody with any ideas of protest. I'm horrified, sickened by the scene, my mind reeling as thoughts and pictures rush by.

_The boy from District 1 – his name's Cobalt. Autumn's fire bomb sends flames licking across his body as he rushes across the beach, desperate to put out the fire. He screams, shouts, shrieks, running across the sand before Mako gores him with his spear. Just another casualty of the Hunger Games…a tribute extinguished by fire._

A hand grabs my shoulder roughly, pulling me out of my thoughts. I whip my head around with a gasp, expecting to see a Peacekeeper confronting me.

Two cold, coal-black eyes stare past me towards the immolated woman. The tallest man I've ever seen stands before me, dressed in black from head to toe in a trench coat and form-fitting slacks. Only his head shows any color – his crown a bare, bald patch of pale skin, almost as white as the snow.

"It's beautiful, isn't it, Ms. Holdrege?" he says, his words slow and stressed. "Just another human…dying for the sake of futile protest. There is an _art_ in that waste."

I panic as I inhale sharply: "Who are – I…I'm…"

"Don't worry about those Peacekeepers," the man watches the white-armored police scatter with something close to contempt. "Once they listened to their commanding officer…now, however, they listen only to me."

I'm frozen in place. Is this man the new Head Peacekeeper? What does he want with me? I was just watching, I…didn't do anything…

"What do you want with me?" I ask quickly, my voice breaking.

"Oh, I don't concern myself with _wants_, Ms. Holdrege," he smiles, looking down at me with an expression I can't place. "My name is Scion, but please…why don't we get out of this cold? That sounds like something we should…_want_."


	3. Decay

Scion leads me half a kilometer through the snow to a run-down wooden hovel. I'm scared out of my wits: What does this man want with me? _Who _is he? By the sound of what he said, he's the new Head Peacekeeper of District 9…but he's not wearing their traditional white armor, nor is he flashing a badge and wielding a club. No, he's just…_bizarre_. I can't explain the cold feeling I get from him.

"In," he smiles with no teeth. "A delightful abode, don't you think?"

I shiver as I step in the doorway. The old wooden roof of the shack has fallen in from the weight of the snow, letting cold wind whip in through the hole. Battered furniture lies overturned except for two chairs and a wooden table at the far end of the small room.

"This isn't the Head Peacekeeper's home," I say nervously.

"Isn't it?" Scion asks. "I was led to believe wherever he was…that was his. Here, I'll even show you. Please, excuse me for a moment."

Scion opens a door to an adjacent room, leaving me alone as I take a seat on one of the surviving chairs. I grip my arms in the cold wind, but my gut's jumping around in nervousness. I have a feeling I'm not here for anything to do with the burning woman down at the Square.

_Thump!_

I nearly fall over in my chair as a body slumps into the snow by the door. It's the old Head Peacekeeper, still clad in his white armor…but very much dead.

"Unfortunately, he had to leave us prematurely," Scion remarks with a wry frown. "Not a very useful tool, him. But, if it's titles you want…"

He takes a seat in the other chair across the table, sitting formally and straight with his hands clasped on the old, splintered wood: "Then go ahead and refer to me as your new Head Peacekeeper. I won't even dispute the point."

Scion pulls out a manila folder from his trench coat, opening it up and holding it before him like a brief: "I have your file here, Ms. Holdrege…I've been watching you for some time, now. A period of approximately…six months, I'd say."

He rustles the paper as if spotting something interesting as he goes on: "Aged 16 years, female, daughter of a farm hand on the Eastern side of the district…a rather plain history before the Hunger Games chose you. Good student in school, no criminal action, no run-ins with Peacekeepers. But there are the…_downsides_ of that quiet life, aren't there? A loner, few friends, felt like a burden on her family and as if you were somehow responsible for your mother's death during your birth…even – " Scion looks up at me with a bemused expression before going on. " – babysat your best friend's younger sister. Not exactly a career-defining opportunity, Ms. Holdrege."

"Is this…going anywhere?" I speak up hesitantly. I'm frightened that the Peacekeepers have this much detail on me and that Scion's delving into my personal life – even when I was still just an average girl. If they know this about _me_, what do they know about everyone else?

"Patience, _patience_," Scion holds up his hands and smiles. "It's a virtue, I was told. Your history following the Reaping is quite a bit more…interesting. Abysmal performance in the Hunger Games, for a victor. Only actually killed one tribute yourself – a boy from District 3, I see, and by accident – and had more than enough help to win. That is a weakness. Since the Games, a recluse…suffering from paranoia, auditory hallucinations, post-traumatic stress disorder, and severe depression. I see."

"Are you from the Capitol?" I ask. "How do you – "

"I may have been there," he sets the file down and lays the paper down in front of me. "See for yourself."

The paper's a blank sheet. I look down in confusion, glancing back up at Scion as he stares at me with an amused expression. He knows _everything_ about me, and he doesn't need a file to know.

"Let's get the obvious out of the way, Ms. Holdrege," Scion leans back in his chair, appraising me his icy black eyes. "I know a great deal more about you than you know about…anyone, I believe. Let me tell you a little about me. I began my…_career_…in District 1 as an information gatherer for the Capitol, and I found it so insufferably _boring_. I left behind a few gifts of my own to those vapid narcissists, but I departed almost as soon as I came. I was encouraged to select a new district to explore my skills, and I settled on District 12. The polar opposite of District 1; a true black hole of human misery and poverty…but once again, I found myself with nothing to do. There's very little to keep yourself entertained with when the average denizen of such a place can be confused with the average pest."

"I left District 12 soon after and returned to the Capitol. I thought over what I learned while fulfilling my duties to my _superiors_, and I came to a startling conclusion: Seeking out the extremes of the human condition leaves one with certain emptiness in their stomach. My superiors in the Capitol sent me into the districts to learn about their people, and I found the best way to do that involved finding a middle ground between the slums of District 12 and the skyscrapers of District 1. I picked District 9 by random selection, and here I am."

"That brings me to…you," he says with a fret. "You, you…you fascinate me, Ms. Holdrege. You are so unerringly _average_. You are a horrible excuse for a victor: Low-key, quiet, no great fighter or attention-seeker…yet you don't fit with these other citizens of District 9, do you? The way see you as alien to their common way of life…you define the gray area between extremes. That excites me. You are like an experimental subject thrown into the metaphorical test tube. I enthusiastically wait for where this will lead."

"What do you want from me?" I ask. This man, Scion, perplexes me. He drags me off from the Square to this hut in the middle of nowhere, yet he's all too happy to speak on ends about things that don't matter. What's the point?

"Want? I believe I said I do not concern myself with wants…" he frowns and looks down at his hand, as if lecturing a struggling student. "My only _want_ is to…move this experiment forward, shall we say. You are alone. You don't belong with these other people in the district, nor do you belong in the Capitol. You have _potential_. I want to see where that takes you…who knows? It might even be useful to me."

"Useful for what?"

"Panem is in a state of decay, Ms. Holdrege," he says, leaning forward with a serious gaze. "The President knows this. The leader of the Peacekeepers, Cyrus, knows this. _I_ know this. As the disgruntled graffiti painted in the Victor's Village this morning may have told you, there are violent, unhappy people in districts like this. In Snow's regime they were suppressed; with his passing and Nero's ascendance just a few years ago they see an opportunity to test their limits. The Capitol does not like this…not at all; not one bit. Free people must be stamped out, their voices quelled. It's the only way the Capitol handles dissent. That is why I am here. That is my purpose, so I am told: To understand the undercurrents of Panem's forgotten majority. To do what I can to ensure Nero's reign is…as _successful_, shall we say, as Snow's."

"One such as you…so _alone_, so quintessentially average…perhaps you can help in the Capitol's goal. If not through conscious action of your own will, then by…_unconscious _action."

I gulp. Scion's words are clear: The Capitol doesn't like people speaking out against them, like the vandal this morning did. He wants to turn me – the newest victor, Panem's freshest face and someone yet to be spoiled by the other victors – into a tool to use against those dissenters. I'm his pawn – the _Capitol's _pawn – in a game far larger than me.

That's why Nero confronted me after the Games. He wanted a victor to be the face of the regime – to embrace the Capitol, rather than turn away and become just another drunk mess. He wants a public relations victory to ensure his new rule isn't a short one – or a weak one.

"So what are you going to do with me?" I ask quietly. "Make me say something during the Victory Tour, or during next year's Games? Make me the mayor, or something? I'm just one girl."

"No, no, nothing so overt. Not yet. I," he says, snapping his fingers in the air and motioning towards the Head Peacekeeper's body. "Am going to see just what I have on my hands with you. I've already begun."

Something moves over in the other room. I grip the back of my chair as a pale creature emerges on all fours, dripping white goo from its gaping mouth and investigating the dead body with an eyeless head.

It's the mutt. The same one I saw last night.

I leap up out of my seat in fright as Scion spreads his arms wide: "Did you enjoy my pet's sojourn? Your reaction amused me."

I back up, away from the prowling mutt and Scion. This isn't right. Everything about this man, from his evasive answers and long-winded philosophizing to a _human mutt_ tagging around, tells me I'm in danger.

"Am I…am I free to go?" I stumble over the words.

"Oh, you're free to do whatever you so choose," Scion murmurs, watching me with a predatory stare. "That's the point, isn't it, Ms. Holdrege? You are free, supposedly, like _me_…and yet we're not here in District 9 speaking about these matters because we're free. We're speaking because we are _not_ free. You and I…you just a girl, as you say, and me...an enigma. I look forward to finding out just who we are."


	4. Remember

_**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, everybody! Always happy to hear back from you guys on ideas, critiques, etc. Also, extremely long chapter ahead with a metric ton of dialogue. Warning you ahead of time.**_

_** Celina, as far as the human mutt, it's supposed to be creepy, haha. Don't worry, I have plenty more ideas on how to ramp up the horrifying factor with the mutts.**_

_** AC: Thanks for the kind words! You're actually right on with the arena – I tend to base my arenas less as defined set pieces and more as real-world locations appropriated and refurbished by the Capitol. I've definitely taken a few creative liberties with Panem and the Capitol, although feel free to tell me if I go too far with that kind of thing in coming chapters/installments. I don't want to get too crazy.**_

* * *

_Knock, knock, knock_.

I twist in my bed sheets, warding the bright morning sunlight out of my eyes. So much knocking! Can't everyone leave me alone and let me sleep for a change? I think I've earned that privilege.

No. Of course not – you're a victor; there is no "leaving me alone." Especially not today.

"Skye?" Sage says from the other side of my door. "Skye, get up. You gotta get ready for the train."

I throw my blankets off in a huff, letting the sheets fall all over the floor in a mess. Today's the day I've been dreading: Today the Capitol will take me away in that shiny silver train, throw me in front of cameras, and force me to confront those fears creeping up in my head face-on. Today I can't hide; today nobody will leave me alone.

"I'm up," I grunt, running my shoulder into the door and plowing out of my room. "Sort of. Gimme a minute."

"Don't take too long. Selene came by and said she'd be back in half an hour. I've got breakfast for you."

There are times Sage's surrogate parent role really grates on my nerves, but I don't complain. Better to have my older brother as a parent than my apathetic father.

I toss on a basic red blouse and white skirt and cover myself in a thick winter coat, putting in little effort for the Capitol cameras. Selene says that the Capitol wants to see me "in my natural environment" when I board the train, which is just fine by me. The longer I can stave off having to see Magritte and my chattering stylists, the happier I'll be. I finish up by pulling my hair back in my usual ponytail, adding a sky blue ribbon for a splash of color. There. The Capitol can be happy with that…Skye Holdrege, here in her natural habitat. Don't agitate the animals.

Sage has laid out bread and cheese on the table – a rather spartan breakfast, considering I have the money now to buy the best food in District 9. I plop down on a creaky wooden chair, resting my arms on the table and planting my face in my hands.

"You feelin' alright?" Sage asks, taking a seat across the table.

"No," I murmur. "I don't want to go."

"Hey, at least you get good food out of it."

"Sage, I have to look at the faces of the family members whose kids are dead. I killed some of them. That's not re-assuring."

"You killed _one_ kid, Skye. He tried to kill you first, so that's not really something you should get hung up on."

I cross my arms and sit back in my chair, staring down at my feet: "You don't understand."

"Then help me understand, sis. You've been so quiet over the last few months; I barely hear a word from you when I'm off work."

I kick at the table leg, stewing in my thoughts. Talking about my feelings has never been my best trait – the lone exception being when I cried my guts out to Selene in the Training Center before the Hunger Games – and turning a new page now isn't on my agenda. I can't tell Sage about President Nero or Scion or anything like that; there's nothing he can do, and the fact that the Capitol has its eye on me will only make him angry and overprotective. There's only so much my older brother can do for me, and he certainly can't fight my battles for me.

"How can I tell anybody anything," I mutter into my lap. "I tried to help people in the Games and they just ended up dead. I don't want to hurt anyone anymore."

"Skye, nobody's gonna hurt me or anyone else in the district," Sage leans forward on his elbows, trying futilely to lift my spirits. "We're safe, okay?"

_Oh, if only that were true…_"But I'm not, Sage. Look at me! I get to return to District 9, and what happens? The Capitol takes me away again to parade me around like I'm a presentation in the windows of the Square's stores. Come this summer, they'll take me away again to go mentor some unlucky kid, who's probably going to die…just one more thing taken away from me."

"There's nothing you can do about the Capitol," he says, reaching over and grabbing my hand. "But you don't have to live like this at home. Remember the boy from District 4? He told you to find a reason to live; to go out and smile. I haven't seen you smile since…maybe before the Reaping. You're just hurting yourself when you stay in and hide from the world. You're letting everything that's getting to you build up and eat away when you're alone and vulnerable."

"I can't go out and expect everyone to understand me."

"No. But I'll tell you what you can do: When you get back from the Capitol, go find your friends Shrike and Reed. They've been trying to reach you, and you've been pushing them away. Go find them, pretend like it's still before the Reaping – before any of this ever happened. Leave all these thoughts behind and go have fun. That's a reason to live. That's something that can make you smile, I'm sure of it."

I sigh, staring at my hand as my brother gives it a squeeze. Considering Reed and I's last conversation didn't end on good terms, I have doubts on how well Sage's plan will work. Still…I suppose it is better than letting these walls get to me, closing in like a vice of depression.

"Alright," I say. "I'll try."

"Good," he gives me a pained smile. "Now – "

The slam of the door flying open cuts off Sage's words: "_Skye, get the Hell up! We're leaving!_"

Selene waltzes into the kitchen, her messy hair flowing around her head like a patch of thistles. She's dressed in a way that makes me look like the Capitol's next fashion icon: In a loose brown shirt covered in stains and well-worn, rugged pants sporting a number of holes, Selene's better prepared to brawl with District 9's drunks than to step into the spotlight. She stops when she sees me, snapping her fingers in frustration: "Darn, you are up. There goes my heroic entrance."

"Good morning to you too," I grunt, shoving a piece of cheese in my mouth. "What's so heroic about waking me up?"

"Well, can't let the cameras come in here and film you when you're sleeping," Selene answers, strolling nonchalantly through my kitchen and digging into my pantry. "They'll start taking pictures and selling them to Capitol tabloids before you can say...'Don't take pictures…and sell them…Capitol.'"

Sage sighs and gets up, giving me a pat on the head: "Good luck, sis. Don't let them get you down."

"You're leaving me with her?" I protest.

"Yeah, what a terrible brother," Selene adds sarcastically, ripping open a fresh new package of bread and helping herself. "Only evildoers leave their siblings with their mentors. Now c'mon, the train already arrived and is waiting."

"Ugh," I groan, pushing my chair out from the table. "I really don't want to hurry."

"Oh, I'm in no mood to hurry, either. That'd make Cicero happy, and I would just _hate_ to do that."

"Cicero's here?" I ask of my escort from the Hunger Games. He's not a face I wanted to see; far from being a good escort, Cicero only made me feel like an even bigger failure in the eyes of the Capitol during the time leading up to the Games.

"Yeah, how unfortunate. Maybe he'll make today the best day ever and lay down on the train tracks," Selene shrugs. "But enough of that. Let's go."

I toss on a cheery violet scarf and boots and follow my mentor out onto the sun-lit snowy avenue of the Victor's Village, shielding my eyes from the bright glare. Snow immediately sinks into my boots as I step into a thick drift: _Your terrible day's off to an even more terrible start, Skye!_

"Where's Omaha?" I ask, stepping gingerly through the loose powder to avoid getting even wetter and colder.

"Probably already on the train," Selene murmurs. "Doubt we'll see him before we get to District 12."

"Why's that?"

"He did the same thing during my Victory Tour. Wasn't really keen on showing his face to all the pomp and circumstance around a bunch of depressed districts. I can't blame him, but it means I have to deal with your idiot stylist and _proud, patriotic Cicero_ myself. Just what I've always wanted."

"It sounds like a great time," I sigh.

We pass the beaten-down houses of the Processing Ward on the way to the train station, walking by white-covered shacks with dilapidated wooden roofs that just barely keep winter's chill out. Guilt creeps over me as I see faces watching us as we pass by. Selene and I always have a warm home to return to; a full meal, a hot bath, and all the other trappings of comfort and what passes for luxury in District 9. These families – the impoverished wives, husbands, daughters and sons of the workers in the sorting and distribution factories, who make up the majority of District 9 – will never have anything close to what I'm afforded.

I spot an old man covered in a ratty blanket on a porch – homeless, likely starving. He probably won't last the winter in these cold conditions, yet this is what I'm off to go celebrate. And Scion said District 12 is even _worse?_

"I know what you're thinking," Selene notices my long face and urges me on. "You've already given these people enough with the monthly food shipments the Capitol sends because of your victory. You can't save everyone."

"It's just stupid," I mutter, kicking a ball of snow aimlessly and shoving my hands into my coat's pockets. "This is what's happening…and we're off to the Capitol to pretend to be fancy. How long can people put up with this?"

"Who says they do?" Selene replies. "That guy the Peacekeepers hung a week ago who spray-painted that nice message on the empty Village houses? The woman – related, I guess – burning herself in protest in the Square? It's all because people aren't putting up with it. But when they finally stop accepting the status quo and do something about this shit…I can't say it'll actually be a good day, Skye."

"Why's that? The Capitol makes all this happen. They don't need their nice food and shiny buildings."

"The line between the Capitol and the poorest people in our district is pretty thin when you stop looking at everyone by what they wear or what they eat," she frets. "You've got rich people and poor people. They're all still people, with every stupid thing each of us does or thinks. Spend a little time in the Processing Ward's streets here. You'll get to know just what everyone thinks…and what they'd do if they were in charge. Here's a hint: They'd start off by killing everyone in the Capitol, regardless of who they are. Does that sound like the right change to you?"

"Maybe you're just talking to the wrong people," I offer.

"Maybe. But if so, there are a lot of wrong people."

We walk the rest of the way in silence, trudging quietly through the snow. Everything's quiet, muted by the white landscape. The trees stand like skeletons, their bare branches sagging. No birds call out, no insects chirp; even the street rats are nowhere to be seen. It's like death itself has come out to welcome me back to the world of the Hunger Games.

Everything changes when we reach the station. Capitol cameramen swarm the platform, surrounding us like a pack of wolves and snapping away with bright flashbulbs. I put on a brave face as Cicero, dressed in a muted, bland all-drab outfit, comes to greet us and fend off the cameramen. For an escort, Cicero sure doesn't dress like most people in the Capitol. He's plain even by District 9 standards.

"I've got a long list of faces I don't want to see," Selene smiles to him as he grabs my shoulder firmly. "Yours is right at the top."

"The feeling is mutual, believe me," he replies curtly, his thin dark eyebrows arching as he pushes me along towards the train. "Skye, your moment of victory. Stand tall. Be proud of what you brought your district."

_I brought us a train?_ I think as I step off the platform and back into the ornate land of my nightmares.

Wood-paneled homes and homeless men give way to crystal chandeliers and stainless steel counters. Gone is the snow, replaced with blue springy floors that melt under my feet. Familiarity has turned into uncertainty and discomfort.

There's no escaping the Victory Tour now.

"Skye," Selene says as soon as she gets on. "It'll take us all the way until tomorrow to reach District 12. Go find an empty cabin and settle in for a bit; clear your mind."

"Wait," I stop her. "Selene…what's really going to happen during this trip? I know you and Omaha have explained it before, but…I just feel like I'm being pulled along."

"You mean what's it going to feel like?" she picks my brain. "It sucks, Skye. I'm telling you to clear your mind because you'll need your strength to deal with the gauntlet we're running into. We'll go nonstop from district to district, with you putting on a smile and a heartfelt thanks to the people who won't ever see their kids again. None of that's going to feel good, and by the time we get to the Capitol, you'll be worn down to the bone. I won't lie and say it's all happy, because it's not. It blows. I was an angry and angst-ridden wreck by the end of my Tour. Omaha and I'll be here for you, but right now…go take a little time on your own and do what you need to do. It's better than trying to dive head-first into all this."

I nod and turn away, holding onto the hem of my coat as I do so. My mentors had told me plenty about the Victory Tour before, but hearing it now – as I'm actually on the train to District 12- it feels like a fresh hammer blow. _Just get it over with, Skye. Two weeks or so…two weeks and you're back home. _

I hope I can last two weeks.

* * *

I can't sleep.

Just like the last time I was on a train leaving District 9, I toss in turn in my bed as strange lands fly by my window. A crescent moon spills milky light onto a snow-covered forest that roars by like a blur. I don't feel right on this journey already. I'm headed into a gut-wrenching series of guilt trips all before the Capitol comes, where Nero will undoubtedly toss me around like a puppet. How can I sleep knowing I'm walking into the teeth of this monster?

I toss the Capitol's heavy silk blankets off of me, pulling a thick robe over my nightgown and slipping into the hall. The red numbers of the clock on the wall read 1:30, but I don't care about time. If I'm not sleeping anyway, what's the point of forcing myself to stay in bed at odd hours of the night?

_Slam!_ I wince in pain as I stub my toe into the wall, navigating through the dark with all the dexterity of a drunken donkey. It's been a while since I was forced to confront the human mutt in the dark cave during the Games; my night vision hasn't had to work out much since then.

I make my way to the rearmost car of the train, hoping to settle down under the open night sky in the lounge car. It's my favorite part of the ornate and overdone train: The lounge car's transparent ceiling and walls and casual, comfortable furniture allow me to relax, watching the stars I've always treasured.

Like last time, however, I'm not alone as I pull open the door to the car.

A dark figure lies on one of the long plush coaches, stretched out with his hands supporting his head. It's Omaha.

"Is there something you need?" my mentor solemnly asks, his voice little more than a mumble.

"Sorry," I stammer, backing out through the door. "I don't want to bother you."

"You're not. Please, join me. Sit."

I walk back in, slowly and quietly sitting down on a wide, deep plush chair and pulling my knees up to my chest. Omaha and I are quiet for a while as I settle in to the calming surroundings, letting my eyes adjust and watch the stars stare down on the forest flying by.

"Omaha?" I speak up after a while. "Can I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"I'm…having trouble with my thoughts," I manage to spit out. Once again, laying my emotions bare isn't my strong suit. "I've been thinking about the arena a lot since I came home. I can't keep the memories out. How do you always seem so calm every time I see you? It's like…like you've managed to forget and push aside everything."

"Forget?" he replies. "If you're asking me how to forget, you're asking the wrong person."

"Why?"

"Because I can't push aside those memories any more than you can," he answers. "When I'm alone, at home in the Victor's Village on a quiet winter night, I lose myself in memories. I choose not to forget, but to remember."

"But that's what makes it hurt," I say, confused. "I don't want to keep remembering all these bad things."

"Not necessarily the bad things," he says. "It's the bad things I live with now. The solitude. The isolation. The feeling of being different from everyone else, as if no other person can understand what's inside your mind. The weight of a choking fog upon you, making you think as if you'll never know how it feels to be happy ever again. That's what I believe you struggle with when I watch you stay inside for days, weeks at a time. I choose to remember the good things."

"Like what?"

"The touch of a loved one's hand in yours," he says wistfully. "The sight of the golden grain fields on a clear summer day. The smell of flowering trees in spring. The sound of laughter from the lips of a young girl lost in jubilation. Aren't those things worth remembering? Those memories are just as real as the ones of the Games and of all the children I've watched die; they feel just as real as talking to you now. Isn't that better than staring at the walls and ceiling all night, drowning in your desperation? When I recall those good moments, I relive them again and again. They are my life that's worth living in a world where I have few alternatives to find happiness."

"Those sound like personal memories."

"They are. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to infringe on your thoughts."

"You're not," I say quickly. "The thing is…I have good memories, but I just can't help but thinking back to the arena. I feel guilty that I'm alive and Autumn and Mako aren't. That I'm going to see twenty –three families now who'll never see their kids again. It hurts, and it won't leave."

"If it's freedom from guilt you seek," he says. "Then I may not be much help, Skye. I don't feel guilt for the children I killed in the Games. After all, I didn't really kill them. The Capitol did when it Reaped us; when I entered the arena, I became little more than an instrument of nature. Kill or be killed. It has been that way since the dawn of time. I didn't kill those children because I chose to; I killed because the choice was not mine to make. My guilt comes from the decisions I and I alone made."

"Like what?"

Omaha goes silent for a long time. I stare up at the stars, fiddling with my hair and wondering what I've asked. Am I forcing one of those unpleasant memories through his mind?

Just as I'm about to apologize, he answers: "I suppose you deserve to know my story, Skye. After all, I know yours."

"You don't have to," I backpedal. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"I was born in the orphanage," Omaha ignores me and begins. "No family. No friends in that terrible, cold place. I grew up angry at the world, feeling like I'd been left for slaughter. I lashed out at the other children, hurt them, made them feel my pain. One day when I was 15, however, I met someone who turned my life around."

"Her name was Fern. She was my age, also from the orphanage, but I'd always overlooked her as small, thin, and fragile. I'm convinced she was the smartest girl in District 9 at the time, and she wouldn't back down from me when I was bullying another child. She stepped in, grabbed the hand I was beating him with, and told me all those things – those true things – about me I'd ignored. I was hurt. I was alone. I was in pain, and to relieve it, I took out my pain on others."

"I respected her for what she did; for standing up to me. I came to love her. Fern and I became the best of friends, admitting our feelings for each other during the summer of the 74th Hunger Games when we were 16 year-olds. I remember her horror at two tributes from District 12 – I can still remember their names; Katniss and Peeta – who went in as star-crossed lovers and ended up tragically dying in the arena, their budding love shattered upon bloodied grass. We bonded over our disgust with the Capitol's zeal for killing that year, reveling in our humanity. Then came the 75th Games a year later – my Games."

"Fern and I were Reaped in a Quarter Quell that deliberately picked out orphans; we became the lovers of the 75th Games on the heels of the broken dreams of the 74th. She held out hope that somehow, some way we could escape the arena together, but I knew better. I knew only one tribute leaves, and during the training, I threw away the two years of love she'd drawn from my heart. I turned back into that cold, angry kid I'd been. When we entered the arena, Fern and I teamed up and took on the Games together, but I had changed. I tore down a weak tribute from District 8 like I was cutting down a bad crop of wheat. She was horrified, terrified by my callousness. Fern stuck by my side, hoping I'd become better, praying I'd return to the man she loved."

"I never did," Omaha finishes. "I killed a boy from District 1, leaving her and I as the only two tributes still alive. She looked up at me, asked me what we were going to do…and I stabbed her."

"I won the Games by throwing away the best two years of my life. I stepped back from her bloody, broken body in horror, aghast at what I'd done. The Capitol loved the killer inside me, but I hated that man – I hated _me_. I had killed the only thing I cared about in life, and in doing so, I killed my own soul."

"The guilt's not from that killing blow," he sighs. "After all, I was right: There's only one winner. The guilt's not from killing that malnourished girl from District 8 or the icy boy from 1. I feel guilty because I loved Fern. Because I made her hold on to something she believed in – the person I was, the person I threw aside but she still clung to. I feel guilty because I gave her pause when she should have killed me first. That was something I did. That was a death on my hands – not because I stabbed her, but because I'd doomed her long before we ever saw the arena."

"When I warned you about emotional attachments before your Games, I was warning you about what happened to her. When you teamed up with Mako, when you two shared your feelings, the 75th Games came back to life around me. I feared you'd be unable to kill him if you two were left as the final tributes standing…that you'd suffer Fern's fate."

I gulp involuntarily as the thoughts rush back. The little criticizing voice in my head plays over in my mind, recalling the thoughts I had during that crushing last night in the arena.

_Are you ready to stab that boy from District 4? No! Mako cares about me! And I care about him!_

_He saved me; he's kept me alive where I should have died a hundred times!_

_It's love. Or as close to it as we can experience in the Games. Maybe the Capitol will…will let it happen, or something. I don't know! I can't kill him! No!_

I would have fallen just like Omaha's lover. I couldn't have killed Mako, listening to those thoughts I had back in the Games. He was a volunteer, a trained killer – and as much as I believe he loved me, he wouldn't have hesitated to take me down in order to go home.

Just like Omaha. Just like your mentor, Skye. In the Hunger Games, survival at any cost is the one rule.

I'm not fit to be a victor. That's not a rule I can abide by; not a game I can play. I won because of a series of extraordinary circumstances and the Capitol's timely intervention with a mutt.

"I'm sorry," I manage to say, choking up in response to both Omaha's sad story and my own realization that Mako and I were doomed from the start.

"It's in the past, Skye," Omaha replies, as still as a statue on his couch. "In the memories I relive, she's still here. That man I was for two years – he's still here. I just have to fight off the years of that other man to reach him. There are other good memories, too: I can still see the bright smile on your face the day you came home, the ribbon in your hair waving in the wind. I can see the sparks in Selene's eyes when she stepped off the train back in District 9. I can hear the love in my old mentor's voice right before he died, telling me he was proud of me. I've found it's the little things that can ease this crippling life we live."

"So what would I tell you?" he moves on. "Remember. Don't forget. Remember that whatever Mako was thinking for the end of the Games, he still cared about you for the short time he knew you. Remember that Autumn looked up to you as a friend and kindred spirit. Remember. Just remember."


	5. Lost Souls

_**A/N: Charlie, don't worry: There's plenty more actual Games action coming, and as Skye's a victor…well, you can imagine what she'll have to do.**_

_** AC: Thank you! That's roughly what I wanted that (rather long and drawn-on) scene to convey. I read most all my reviews, so I'm always happy for feedback.**_

* * *

Nothing could have prepared me for this.

None of Omaha's stories or Selene's sarcastic advice made me ready to face the poor people of District 12, the ones who had watched their tributes die so I could win. No remedy could make me feel good about the accusing eyes of the crowd, the depressing gray pallor of the town square, or looking into the faces of the families of the two tributes shot down and left to die by Tethys.

A rush of crowds, bland, boring speeches, dinners, and fancy dresses sweeps through my next few days, leaving me choking and sobbing in the restroom of District 8's Hall of Justice at one point. My mentors do their best to calm me down, but between the bitter, solemn districts who want nothing more than to see me leave to Cicero and Magritte's enthusiasm over touring Panem, I feel like some unwanted puppet forced into the glare of an angry spotlight.

My elegant words and fake sympathies can do little to help the broken spirits of the crowds I face. They don't want to celebrate some victor from District 9; they just want to be left alone.

One sympathizes.

The train hums along on the morning of Day Five of the Victory Tour, passing through the dense forests of Panem's northernmost regions. I sit in my cabin's shower, letting the staccato beats of warm water fall on me as I await the arrival of another painful day.

District 7 – today's chosen district – will be especially harsh. I don't want to step before all those people and look down into the faces of Autumn's family. My ally told me about her life in District 7 during the arena; today I'll have to face it in her place.

Selene knocks on my room's door loud enough so I can hear it over the shower's din: "Ten minutes, Skye. Stylists want to get their hands on you before we pull in."

My silence offers a reply. I want nothing more than to stay here in the shower, letting the hot water wash away my exhaustion. Visiting just four districts has worn me out; how do I put on a friendly face when I'm already barely hanging on?

But hang on I must. I rush through the shower and my stylists get to work, turning me from an ordinary girl into the Capitol's beautiful creation in under an hour. I don't recognize the girl they've put together, the one with the perfumed hair, made-up face, and flowing blue dress and glimmering winter shawl. She's not Skye; she's something else entirely – and she's the girl I have to be today.

The train hisses to a stop as I stare out of a window. Giant trees – trees larger than anything in District 9 – tower around me. A flowing painting of evergreen leaves and brown bark blot out the cold white snow that blankets the ground here in District 7, overshadowing even the bright winter sky above. It's hard to even see through all the trees; here and there, small, circular wooden buildings jut out of the forest, built into or around the giant trunks of these natural towers. They're the lone spots of human civilization in this enormous forest that dominates the landscape; even the train station we pull into is overshadowed by nature's advance.

After the depressing homogeneity of District 12, the overzealous security and flamethrower-wielding drones of District 11, the flat plains of District 10 and the gunmetal gray industrial slums of District 8, I'm glad to be in a place that feels truly alive.

"And here we are," Cicero comments, straightening his ash-gray suit and staring out into the forest. "District 7. A cold place if there ever was one."

"It's the northernmost district, right?" I ask.

"Indeed. A different breed of citizen here…hardy, resilient. They're a strong people."

_Let's hope some of that washes off on me,_ I think.

District 7's mayor – an old, wizened man of at least 80 – welcomes us on the platform, ushering me along into a waiting car. I sigh as I step into the shiny vehicle; it's the same thing I've gone through in the last four districts. Ride to the Hall of Justice. Give a speech. At night, endure a banquet with the district's victors and any other prominent people. Ugh. I wasn't made for public appearances.

"Sit straight," Cicero looks over at me in the car. "You are a victor. These people expect confidence."

_They're going to be disappointed, Cicero._

Trees and stout wooden buildings move in unison as we make our way to the center of the district. Everything begins to blur as I rest my head against the window, watching tiny people looking on in between the giant trunks.

"You gonna be okay?" Selene grabs my shoulder.

I nod slowly, staying quiet as the mayor talks on and on during the ride. I'm not in a mood to listen; all I can focus on is doing what I'm here to do and getting out. Victors traditionally add commentary to their speeches for districts home to an ally in the arena, but I haven't thought at all about what I'd say about Autumn. She deserves to be remembered, deserves a few words…but I don't know what to say to do justice to her courage and bravery in the Games.

I guess I'll just wing it.

"…and here we are!" the mayor concludes in the front of the car, speaking more to Cicero than anyone else by this point. "Our humble Hall of Justice."

I involuntarily gasp. Autumn's description of this place during the Games wasn't far off: The imposing, round, wooden Justice Hall before me pales in comparison to the colossal tree it's built around. A giant redwood soars at least two hundred feet into the air. The trunk's big enough that twenty men couldn't reach around it in full, and the snow hanging off its needed branches gives it a regal, stoic appearance – like a silent sentinel watching over its brethren. It's an awe-inspiring sight.

The pastel greens and grays of the Hall of Justice's interior can't impress me nearly as much, particularly as Magritte fusses with my hair and attendants attach tiny microphones to my shawl. I feel the butterflies of confronting the crowd drawing up in my stomach again as two Peacekeepers push open the Hall's heavy oaken doors.

"Smile," Omaha pats me on the shoulder. "At least fake it – and remember what District 7 meant to you."

I swallow hard as I step forward into applause. Thousands upon thousands of faces stretch out across the massive town square. I force myself to smile as I walk forward, shaking the mayor's hand and waving sheepishly to the district. Crimson and gold banners bearing the Capitol's symbol hang down from the buildings of the square, but they can't hide the look and feel of this place. District 7's imposing: Even the stores and shops in front of me are topped with broad, heavy-set oak roofs that challenge my place in the spotlight.

I look down at the families, and instantly a pang of guilt washes over me. District 7's ill-fated boy, Sumac, has only an old, worn-looking mother and a broad-shouldered brother to speak of. Like the many other families I've seen, they're not eager to be here.

It's when I look at Autumn's family that I nearly break down.

A small girl, probably no older than seven, hangs on to the hem of Autumn's father's coat, crying her eyes out into his waist. She's dressed poorly for the snowy conditions, covered in only a ragged jacket that can't be enough to beat back the cold. Autumn's mother grips her husband's hand, each of them watching me with the same stoic expression I can still remember on my ally's face.

A girl – maybe thirteen or fourteen at most – stands off to the side, her head lowered and her eyes watching me closely. She's a carbon copy of her sister, from her wavy brown hair to her bright green eyes and straight posture. I feel as if Autumn's watching me right now as I glance away from her, the pressure forcing me to stare off into the vague unknown of the crowd.

I sniff loudly in the cold air, gather my voice, and as the mayor finishes his introduction, I begin.

"Thank you," I say, sticking close to my pre-arranged script. "It's an honor to take my place as a victor, representing District 9 and Panem for the 98th Hunger Games. Thank you for the warm welcome, District 7, and your hospitality. I feel – "

I stop. _Good heavens, I sound like an idiot_. This script is turning me into a Capitol robot; is this what Autumn would want me to say? Is this what her sister down there, watching me with those intense green eyes, wants to hear from me?

No. Of course not.

"I didn't know Sumac," I change course, ditching the script and veering into unknown territory. "I know he wanted to go home, and I saw in his eyes that he loved District 7. I saw in his face a boy who cared about where he came from and didn't give up in the arena. He was everything a good guy should be."

Enough about Sumac. I didn't know the kid until I saw him on the verge of death, his last energy wiped out by Mako's mercy kill. There's nothing I can say to make that pain go away.

"I did know Autumn," I catch my breath and steady myself, heading into the subject I've so desperately tried to avoid over the past six months. "In the few weeks I was a tribute, she became my closest friend in the arena. She gave me hope when I had none; she kept me grounded when I only wanted to give in and give up."

"In the Games, we're expected to compete and fight," I say. "But Autumn was more than just a competitor. She was kind, she was strong – and she fought, not only for herself, but for others. For me. For our ally from District 4. For everything we stood for, and for the homes we wanted to come back to. I've spent months thinking about her and my time in the Games, and while I know I can't yet say goodbye, I do know one thing: She's the bravest girl I've ever met…and she's a big reason I'm standing here today. I just…I want to ask you to remember her sacrifice and her spirit. She deserves more than to become another name in Hunger Games history. Don't forget her. I know I won't."

The crowd applauds as I sniff back tears, glancing over at Omaha as my mentor gives me a subtle thumbs-up. I look back, my eyes catching Autumn's teenage sister. The girl looks away, her hands balled into fists as she stares at the ground. She flashes a glance at me for just a moment, but in that brief second, I see a lifetime of memories.

Two sisters, taking on the world together in forested District 7, surviving and battling against the poverty that kept them down. When one was Reaped, the other kept her faith, believing against all odds that her sister would come home. The odds, however, weren't in her favor.

Now she can only hope Autumn will be remembered as she takes on life alone – separated from the best friend she grew up with and loved. Even the kindest words won't bring Autumn back.

I bite my lip and step back, summoning my courage and putting on a fake smile to accept a bouquet of flowers from a tiny girl who rushes up to the stage. A few more words from the mayor and I'm done, turning away from the crowd and all those memories and heading into the Hall of Justice.

I won't forget the memories. I can only hope the crowd out there remembers like I do.

* * *

My motley party's pushed along through the rest of the day, given a tour of District 7's vertical logging fields by the mayor and shown dozens of sturdy men swinging axes and sawing away at giant fallen trees. It's standard stuff: District 10 showed off vast tracts of farmland and barns full of lowing animals, and District 8's mayor was also all too happy to walk me around a dirty, smelly textile plant. At least I'm outdoors this time, if cold…and there are no animal droppings to smell.

Magritte and my stylists wrap me in a glittering gold dress for my evening banquet, an uncomfortably formal affair that I've only just endured through the last four districts. Between meeting victors – like District 12's old and alcoholic Haymitch Abernathy or District 11's powerful but aloof Thresh – to waxing poetic for Capitol emissaries in the districts and the mayor, these celebratory meals have made me want to do anything but celebrate over the last few days.

Tonight is no different.

Omaha and Selene lead me down into the Justice Hall's banquet room, down a flight of hard wooden steps and past painted frescos of nature and foliage. My beaming smile's a well-rehearsed mask; my stately walk a stride I've mastered over the past few days. If it's enough to make tonight go any faster, so be it.

"How pretty," a middle-aged woman with short dark hair remarks coolly as I take my place at the banquet hall's long oak table, adorned with all sorts of local vegetables and game. "Gold dress for…oh, let me guess? Grain? It's like I'm in the freakin' chariot parade all over again."

Omaha rolls his eyes next to me as he explains: "Skye, lemme introduce you to District 7's Johanna Mason."

Autumn described Johanna as "raunchy" in the arena last year, and she looks the part. Johanna crosses her arms as she watches me, dressed in a rugged outfit of olive green that appears to be made out of canvas. A scar crosses from her forehead to her left cheekbone, a remnant of some old fight long since forgotten. Johanna regards me with an expression somewhere between amusement and contempt; she doesn't look any happier to be here than me.

"Uh, hi," I shrug, reaching out my hand. "I'm Skye. Skye Holdrege."

"I know that, brainless," Johanna scoffs. "Despite what you might think, we actually were told your name during the Games. That may seem crazy."

"I'm not exactly one to talk," Omaha interrupts. "But civility's a virtue, Johanna."

"Lemme know how that's working out for you," Johanna replies.

"I, uh…" I continue, trying to make small-talk with her despite her hostile demeanor. "Autumn mentioned you as her mentor when we were in the arena."

"Did she?" Johanna doesn't look surprised. "Well, you might have tried to get some people teary-eyed during your speech, but I'm not really impressed by your 'cute and lovable' act. Take it somewhere else. Autumn's dead like all the other tributes I've tried to keep alive over the last who-knows-how-many years."

I almost choke on a piece of food at her insult. How can she say that about the girl she mentored? About Autumn? About the kindest girl in the Games? _Raunchy_ indeed; Johanna's a downright jerk.

"Come on, that's not really fair," Omaha defends me.

"Mm. Just like life," Johanna leans back.

"I need…" I turn to Omaha. "I need to use the restroom."

He sighs, "C'mon. I doubt they've changed this place since I came here with Selene; I'll take you to it."

We get up from the crowded table, turning down into an empty hallway as Omaha puts an arm around my shoulder.

"Don't let her get to you," he consoles me. "Johanna's gotten bitter after doing this for so long. District 7's only had one winner since she won, and that guy died a few years back. She's a little more cynical than most victors."

"I just need to go outside," I say, turning to the wall and pressing my palms up against it. "I need fresh air. I need to be alone for a minute."

"That door down there," he points to a nearby entrance. "Back door. I did the same thing in every district; these banquets aren't very festive, after all. Take your time, Skye. I'll tie up the others with conversation."

I thank him and walk quickly to the door, pushing it open and gulping down the cold night air. District 7's different at night: The trees are more menacing, bathed in darkness and towering overhead like looming demons rather than protective guardians. The snow's not enough to stifle the wind blowing through the canopy, the branches high above me creaking with every gust.

I squat down against the wall of the Justice Hall and lay my face in my hands. I can't take this Victory Tour any more. All these faces, these forced smiles, pretending I'm some happy victor when I'm not…Johanna's right, in a way. The 'cute and lovable' act isn't me. It's the girl I'm playing, the image I'm showing while I hide the struggling soul underneath.

_Snap!_

A twig breaks as I spot something moving in the brush nearby. I inhale sharply, looking over at the open door a dozen feet to my right. Are there dangerous animals or something in District 7 – or is a Peacekeeper coming to force me back in? The last thing I need is trouble.

A small face peers out from the brush, neither a Peacekeeper nor an animal – nor anything dangerous at all.

It's Autumn's sister; the green-eyed girl who watched me during today's speech.

"Hello?" I say cautiously, trying not to scare her away.

"You're Skye, right?" she asks tentatively, her soprano voice careful and measured. "From District 9?"

I relax. She's not here to hurt me or throw stones; she's as uncomfortable about the pageantry of the Hunger Games as I am. And why not – she did lose her sister, after all.

"Yeah," I say, letting my guard down and offering a smile – a _real_ smile. "Yeah…I was friends with Autumn."

The girl steps out into the open, drawing closer with nervous steps. She's short, maybe five feet tall, and thin – the product of growing up poor in District 7. She's dressed in a torn, weathered coat and boots that barely protect her feet from the snow; she has to be freezing.

"I'm…Summer," the girl says. "I was – am – Autumn's sister. I just…I thought…after what you said today and what you did for her in the arena, I felt just watching your speech wasn't enough."

"I'm sorry about her," I admit. "Autumn was wonderful. She helped save me, and I miss her…I still think about her a lot when I'm alone and dreaming about what happened. I can't even imagine what you're going through."

"It's hard," Summer sighs, looking down and fidgeting with her ratty coat. "She was…before the Reaping, I was worrying about being picked. I'm thirteen, so I had my name in twice plus tessarae, so the odds weren't really good. She wouldn't let me go and kept telling me I'd be alright; that I wouldn't be picked, even with how many times my name was in. I didn't think they'd call her. My mom and dad and little sister Brooke haven't taken things too well, and I've just tried to be strong like Autumn. You were right; she was the toughest of us."

I pause. I don't know what to say to this girl. Few other people would have taken the time to come here, to walk through the snow and risk trying to see me – all just to _talk_. Something about Summer's honesty and admission brings me to the verge of tears.

"She was thinking about you and your family in the arena," I stammer. "She mentioned it to me one night as we watched the stars, just trying to survive another day. I know she was fighting to come home; I wish things could have been different, that it didn't just have to be me or some other lone tribute."

"She had doubts about that guy from District 4," Summer says. "And during that first night when she hadn't found you yet, she was worried about staying alive. But she never worried about you. She believed in you, and if Autumn did...then I can, too. You're not like those other victors who train for the Games and look down at us. I think Autumn wanted you to win if she couldn't. After she died I cried and threw things, but…when it came down to that last day, I'm glad you won if my sister couldn't."

That does it. Tears rush out of my eyes like rivers as I choke up, walking over to Summer and grabbing her in a hug. I cry my broken heart into the shoulder of a girl who hardly knows me, yet underneath the skin, knows me so well.

"I'm sorry!" I cry. "Summer, I…I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Summer replies as I hold on to her. "You said everything I needed to hear when you tried to save my sister in the arena…and with what you said earlier today. I don't know if I'll ever see you again after tonight, Skye, but…I believe in you, for what it's worth."

I sniff and peel myself off of her, grabbing her hand and repeating Omaha's advice: "Just remember her. She loved you. Remember the good times. I don't know where Autumn is now, but I know she's happy to see you're pushing on. Just remember, Summer. Make her proud."


	6. An Act of Love

_**A/N: Waaiiiit…Katniss used hot rain as a description? Huh. I need to go re-read. As for my age…suffice to say, plenty of people on here are probably older than me, haha (I choose to be cryptic.) I feel mixing up vocabulary allows for variety and more precise descriptions (particularly in dialogue where I want certain characters to use larger, rarer words for uniqueness and distinction), but thanks for the compliment!**_

_**Also, I feel like this chapter gets a bit confusing, so if anybody has questions, ask away. **_

* * *

Districts fly by as the Victory Tour marches on. I give speeches to the downtrodden factory workers of District 6 and the imposing Peacekeeper trainees of District 2; I tour smog-filled coal refineries in District 5 and crackling electronics plants in District 3; dazzle and impress in fashion-conscious District 1.

My impromptu meeting with Summer cleared my head and given me a measure of closure over Autumn's death. It wasn't enough to make the pain go away – especially when I give my speech in District 4, where no one has remembered Mako, an orphan by birth and name – but knowing that someone understands what I'm going through and doesn't blame me for what happened in the Games is comforting. It's nice to know I've helped someone – even little Summer, who I doubt I'll ever see again – deal with the hurt.

Some of the victors in the later districts help ease my anxiety, as well. District 1's Aura, the lithe, blonde-haired winner of the 95th Hunger Games, turns out to be a friendly, if flirtatious and devious, young woman. I can see "volunteer" written all over her, but she doesn't look down at me like I expected District 1 and the other volunteer districts to – particularly after the nightmare that was District 2. I meet District 4's married victors and Mako's mentors, Finnick and Annie Odair, who turn out to be a lot nicer than my ally in the arena went on about. Annie's a kind woman, if not all there some times, and while Finnick's clearly a showstopper for the cameras even as he's approaching 50, he's a man who takes the time to get to know me as a person, and not just another victor from a backwater district.

My toughest challenge arrives all too quickly, however, as I stare out the window of the train on the Tour's 12th day. Now I'm headed back to the Capitol…back to the pit of vipers who clamor to see me, led by a man who wants nothing more than to use me for his own devices. The butterflies are creeping up in my gut again.

"You never get used to this place," Selene sighs behind me as we pass by snow-capped mountains and pull into the station I first arrived at for the Hunger Games. "It's never comfortable coming back…year after year after year…"

It's especially uncomfortable as the entire city's center of attention. The Capitol pulls me into three straight days of public appearances, interviews, and speeches, all filled with half-hearted waving, smiles, and congratulatory acceptances. Caught up in the spotlight, I'm never once approaches by President Nero: I was sure he'd try to find me after his words following the Games and Scion's warning before the Tour, but I'm left to play celebrity, controlled only by Cicero's schedule and my mentors' ushering.

Corinth Terrance, the entertainer and host of the Hunger Games, brings me on stage at the Metropolitan Music Hall on the last evening in the Capitol. I have only bad memories of this place: From the interviews on the last night of training to the post-Games recap, here I've been forced to face the crowds and bare my fears and secrets to the world. I won't escape without doing so tonight, either.

I wait off-stage as a musical act finishes, fretting and fiddling with my hands before Corinth brings me out. Magritte's dressed me in a complex, silver dress complete with a tiara around my head to symbolize my victory. He's overdone it again, but I can't expect a simple outfit from my vain and eccentric stylist. Still, it's better than what Corinth's wearing: The man walks out as the musical number finishes, dressed in a gaudy lemon-yellow tuxedo and deep violet pants. I wince at the clash of colors; how the Capitol can consider an outfit like that appealing, I'll never understand.

"…And our night's just coming to a _climax!_" Corinth goes on as I exhale sharply, collecting my wits and pushing back my nerves. "I know you're all looking for the star of the show, ladies and gentlemen – the girl we're all waiting to see, let me welcome, all the way from District 9, the victor of the 98th Hunger Games and our special guest here tonight, Skye Holdrege!"

I step into the light beaming, striding out and grabbing Corinth's outstretched hand. Applause, whistles, and hoots rain in from the crowd as I take my seat on the stage, diving into my host's numerous questions. The interview goes about as I expected until the end, when Corinth dives into the question everybody in the Capitol wants to know the answer to – everyone but me.

"So, Skye," Corinth smiles at me and pats my leg. "We all remember the highs and lows from your time as a tribute – you terrified us with a few close calls, as I do remember."

"I think I was the one terrified," I reply, eliciting a laugh from the audience.

"Oh, don't we remember," Corinth laughs too loud at my off-hand remark. "But I think we can all recall the highs…particularly your relationship with your ally and District 4's tribute, Mako. I can speak for everyone in the Capitol when I say…we fell in love with your love that was tragically cut short. Tell us, Skye: Do you still think him, about what you had?"

I bow my head, looking into my lap as the audience falls silent. I accepted Mako's death back in District 4, when I honored him in my speech…but with all of Panem watching me, I can't help but shed more tears.

"I do," I sniff, raising my head and putting on a brave face. "He saved me in the arena…in more ways than one. I wouldn't be here without him and my ally from District 7, Autumn. I hope Panem will remember them for what they meant to me."

"Of course, Corinth pushes on. "And I have to ask for all of us here…He asked you at the end to move on, to not 'make him an anchor.' Have you been able to find someone else, Skye? Or is happiness still elusive after losing the boy you loved?"

I suck in a lungful of air, closing my eyes and feeling dizzy under the lights of the stage. _He did say that, didn't he? Mako told me to love someone else…and I've done nothing but cry about someone who can't ever come back. I'm letting him down._

"Not yet," I manage to whisper. "Not yet."

"Well," Corinth grabs my shoulder and smiles warmly for the cameras. "We're all pulling for you, Skye. Aren't we folks? Let's give her a big hand!"

He grabs my arm and pulls me up, smiling brilliantly for the show as the crowd cheers. I can't smile anymore, however – not now; not after Corinth brought up the questions in my head.

_Find someone else_. Mako didn't want me to get hung up on him like I have, knowing what I'd become – just another broken-down victor lost in the past. But how do I move on? How do I tell myself to love someone else, to spark that connection I had with him all over again with someone new?

I won't find out tonight, and worrying about it will do me no good until I return to District 9. After all, the worst part of the Victory Tour is upon me: Tonight, my entourage and I will head to President Nero's mansion for a banquet in my honor. I'm sure the cat-eyed president won't let me out of his grasp this time.

* * *

As night falls and the Capitol's people swarm the straights in celebration, I'm thrust into the den of the worst of these thieves.

The wealthiest, most influential, and most popular Capitol citizens loiter in the Presidential Mansion's colossal banquet hall as I step in, clothed in brilliant dresses and suits of every color in the spectrum. Applause greets my entrance as I smile and wave for the crowd and the cameras, posing for a camera shot before finding Selene and Omaha leaning against a wall in the golden hall.

"One more night," Omaha pats my shoulder as I wipe sweat from my brow, careful not to mess up my ornately-done hair. "Who knows? You might find a few people willing to sponsor us during next year's Games."

I hadn't even thought of that. While Omaha's suggestion makes sense, I'm terrified by the thought of the Games. Having to mentor a kid and send them to their likely deaths…if anything, that's even worse than surviving the arena. I'll be powerless to help them outside of what limited training I can give ("Hey, find a couple other kids who won't kill you") and what sponsorships I can garner.

Still, can't worry about that now.

"Marvelous, is it not?" Magritte, dressed in an onyx-black tunic and a silver thing I can only call a snake, walks up to us with an air of arrogance. "A party fit for an artist."

"Or anybody else," Selene rolls her eyes. "I wanna go eat. Skye, c'mon."

A thousand bright white lights shine down from the ceiling that's stylized like the night sky. Musicians play soft melodies from the corner while guests dance slowly in the center of the room. Mosaics and stucco reliefs depicting events I can't pick out cover the walls, surrounding the giant room in what appears to be a massive, long timeline. Selene has the best idea of the night, however: It's the food that's the real star tonight.

Three dozen long tables ring the room, topped with meals and confections from every district and beyond. The tables are arranged by courses: Appetizers and before-meal drinks dot the first few tables, offering everything from spiced wines and bubbling ciders to grapes, citrus fruits, lentils, and shrubby leaves and roots to light meat dishes such as small, thin, oily fish and tiny stuffed birds with brilliant plumages.

Selene picks through a dish filled with shells as I take in the smells and delightful aromas of the tables.

"Here," she says, tossing one of the shells to me. The thing's filled with a pasty goo, like someone sneezed into it and called it an appetizer. "Try it."

"What is it?" I raise my eyebrow, turning the shell over in my hand.

"It's a snail. Eat it."

I yelp and drop the shell, causing several guests nearby to look quizzically in my direction. I turn around and covering my eyes with my hands, exclaiming, "I can't eat that!"

"Jeez, Skye," Selene laughs, picking the shell of the floor and sucking out the innards to the dismay of the guests. "You've eaten rats at home. Just try it."

I shake my head vigorously and nearly sprint to the next table. I'm not eating a _snail_; that's just…_eugh_. I don't care what Selene – or the Capitol – says. Trying a grub in the arena was horrible enough; I'm not going to repeat snacking on some wriggling slimy thing for everyone's entertainment, even if this one _is_ dead and cooked.

Selene grumbles and pushes me on to more appetizing courses. The main dishes offer small sides such as clams and other shellfish and stews that smell like everything from a summer wheat field to the crisp autumn air after a rainstorm.

The Capitol shows its culinary prowess with the main courses, however. Man-sized plates sport giant birds half my size with black and gray feathers, stuffed with sausages and hams. Giant fish with cat-like tentacles around their faces stare lifelessly at me, seasoned and salted with all kinds of woody spices. Braised rabbits and juicy cucumbers surround sizzling pigs covered in orange sauces, while scarlet lobsters and crabs the size of my head lie steaming in beds of lettuce and lemon wedges, accompanied by buckets of liquid butter with enough calories to make my arteries slam shut.

"I'm not gonna be able to eat all this," I mutter to Selene as I shove all sorts of delicious things on my plate, filling a crystal goblet with a violet, bubbly concoction that smells like flower petals covered in morning dew. "I'm gonna be sick all night."

"That's the usual deal around here," Selene grunts.

"What d'you mean?"

"Let's just say…" she says, lowering her voice. "That they waste most of that food that our people in District 9 starve to produce. I don't see any grossly skinny people here. Great country."

I look down at my plate and fret. Who from District 4 or District 10 or elsewhere toiled and bled to gather or collect what I'm about to eat right now? It's safe to say _they_ aren't at a huge banquet in my honor, stuffing their faces full of delicacies.

"Maybe I should put some back," I hesitate.

"If you do that, some fat slob will just waste it himself," Selene shrugs. "I don't know about you, but the food's about the only reason I actually find a reason to come back here. Besides the 'we'll kill you if you don't' reason, that is. Skye, you're not gonna change the whole system by refusing to eat what's already been prepared."

I guess she's right. Still, as I gulp down the best food I've ever had, I feel a pang of guilt about my participation in this display of gluttony. Ugh. If Omaha and Selene can do it, I suppose I can too.

The night moves on as I'm forced by Cicero and Magritte into meeting dozens of faces I quickly forget. Two hours of smiling, pretending to be enthusiastic, and shaking hands has worn me out by the time Cicero pushes me towards yet another guest – this one a tall, brooding man with his back turned to me, dressed in a tight black suit and pants.

"…And allow me to introduce," Cicero says as I rub my eyes in exhaustion. "A Mr…uh, Scion, was it?"

I freeze as Cicero leaves me alone with the man. He turns, revealing a long face and a pair of coal-black eyes that I couldn't mistake for anyone else. I've seen this man before.

But I didn't see him in the Capitol.

"He…doesn't live here," I say to myself, my voice just barely audible over the din of the party. "He lives…in District 9."

"Or does he chose the time and place of his appearances?" the man who confronted me in the Square back before the Victory Tour smiles coldly. "Is he the master of his domain? Is he…_free_?"

"What do you want with me?" I swallow hard, sweat forming on my brow. "I'm just – "

"Indulging in the Capitol's largesse, yes," Scion finishes. "But is it indeed generosity they offer you, Ms. Holdrege? Or is this all one fine set-up? After all, we deduced back in District 9 that I am not a man of wants. There is _another_ man who wants you tonight."

I ball my right hand into a fist. _The President_. Of course – he wasn't going to let me run away from the Capitol without confronting me at least once.

Scion chuckles as my eyes light up in realization. He straights out his black tie and shirt, looking down at me like a mentor to a slow student: "By now you've no doubt figured out that I am not simply an agent of the Capitol as I said. I've watched you during this…_Tour_…and I've learned something interesting. While these vapid people in the Capitol may adore you, the Districts do _not_. Your humanity, your attempts to empathize with their losses – such things don't comfort those people. Their suffering is beyond the words of one teary-eyed teenage girl, and when she tries to understand their point of view, well…it doesn't make them feel better; it only _angers_ them. You _fuel_ their resentment, Ms. Holdrege, and I have a feeling what you'll be asked to do tonight will only fuel it _more_."

"I asked you what you wanted," I say, growing heated. If he wants to take me to the President, fine – but standing here and insulting my performance in the Victory Tour after I did my best to not appear like some other brash, arrogant victor is too much.

"I believe I explained I am not a man of wants," he chuckles. "Suffice to say, I'm here on my own business. However, you continue to fascinate me, Ms. Holdrege, and I couldn't resist inviting myself to this _wonderful_ show…tell me; do you _really_ think that little girl in District 7 believed a word you said? Oh, the humanity…"

"Stop!" I shout, drawing looks from guests nearby. "Why are you doing this? Why are you – "

"So many 'whys'," Scion smiles. "All in good time. You have a part to play; Nero wants to see you in his personal lounge. He sent an assistant to retrieve you, but I took over that responsibility. Come."

Scion grabs my arm in a vice-like grip before I can respond, half-dragging me away from the party like I'm prey caught by a hunter. The Capitol guests hardly even notice; they're too caught up in their meals and talk to remember the victor being taken away to see the President.

"Look at them," Scion hisses in my ear, glancing at the crowded banquet hall. "These hedonists, these…beasts. They call the poorest man in District 12 a barbarian. They should speak to their own reflections first."

Scion laughs mockingly as he drags me down a long hallway lined with ornate pictures of the Districts. He pulls me up a flight of marble stairs, pulling me down yet another hall covered in gold and crimson before stepping up to a massive mahogany door. The eagle and olive branch of Panem's symbol looks down from above the doorway, while two Peacekeepers stand on either side, each wielding a nasty-looking gun.

"Give my regards," Scion smiles cruelly. "And think before you accept anything, Ms. Holdrege."

He steps back, opening the door and disappearing into a side hall just as quickly as he arrived. Before I can exhale in relief from leaving Scion behind, I step into the nicest, best-decorated room I've ever seen.

Thousands, maybe tens of thousands of books line giant cherry cases that rim the walls, interspaced with pictures of Panem's history and scenes I can't place – perhaps even the world that came before. Old suits of armor and weapons stand like statues in glass cases, shining like new in the soft white lights that illuminate the room like the full moon at midnight. Soft woven rugs of all sorts of fabrics cover the floor – from District 8, perhaps? – while leather and silk-covered chairs of crimson and brown invite me to sit around ancient oaken tables.

"Impressive, is it not?" An airy, nasally voice speaks up. "Relics of a world long since lost. Appropriate that they stand in the study of one who prides himself as a master of culture."

President Nero slinks out from behind a glass-enclosed suit of armor, his yellow eyes homing in on me like an arrow. His tight-fitting black suit and red shirt give him a dangerous, aggressive appearance that seems ill at odds with the crystal goblet of red wine he holds in his right hand.

"_Château Savoie_," he comments, reading my expression and smiling with the corners of his thin-lipped mouth. "An ancient wine, although below my expectations if I may be truthful. It is hard to be truthful when my people want smiles and applause…but of course you have had your fill of that over the past two weeks, have you not?"

"Come, sit," he points at a chair around one of the dark tables. "Drink? But you have already indulged, yes."

"No thank you," I whisper as I cautiously take a seat.

"Of course. Straight to business," he smiles. "But if we do not take time for informality, how do we breed familiarity? Such a quandary."

I decide to stay quiet about my run-in with Scion; why mention the man unless Nero asks about him? I'm still in the dark about Scion's intentions, and don't even know if the President knows about him at this point. Better to keep my secrets to myself.

"I see in your blue eyes that you have questions," Nero sets his wine down on a side table and crosses one leg over the other. "Questions, yes…but this is not an interrogation. Simply two acquaintances gathering for a chat – and are we not acquainted, Skye?"

"Y- yes," I stammer nervously.

"Hm," the President rubs his bare chin thoughtfully. "Allow me to elucidate. My predecessor, Snow, came perilously close to open rebellion during the years of the Hunger Games of the 70s, or so. He quelled it with his usual brash hand – assassination, kidnappings, the like. Too much bloodshed and ill-will for me. But I see a country now entering a new era – _my_ era. A change in regime necessitates a change in strategy, and I certainly intend to change the heavy-handed tactics of Snow."

He picks up his glass of wine, tipping back the glass and emptying the contents. At the snap of his fingers, a crimson-clothed, silent man walks up out of nowhere, filling the goblet with wine and disappearing as soon as he'd come.

"Now," Nero goes on, clasping his hands over his knee and leaning back in his chair. "Do you know why you are here?"

"No," I squeak. "But…"

"But I do. Of course; I am President – it is my job to know everything," he finishes for me. "This role is as much that of an information broker as it is that of a national leader. I have an assignment for you, Ms. Holdrege."

I gulp. Scion's warning sounds all the clearer now: _You fuel their resentment, Ms. Holdrege, and I have a feeling what you'll be asked to do tonight will only fuel it more_

"The Hunger Games are a colorless event," Nero takes another swig of win as he explains. "Blood and gore can only satisfy an audience for so long; they crave stories, as I explained to you after your time in the arena. Your story – your endearing tale of shattered love and broken bonds – provided me with an opportunity. I need a face for the Hunger Games. Not the face of an entertainer and host such as Corinth Terrance, or heavens forbid that ancient man Templesmith. They are talking heads. I need a human…a _relatable_ human…to act as the intermediary between the audience and the Games, someone they have come to know and love to communicate the event in a way they will embrace and cherish, rather than despise and fear. And don't believe I don't know the detest and fear that accompanies the Games in the Districts; it is all too obvious."

Two-for-two for Scion: _Their suffering is beyond the words of one teary-eyed teenage girl, and when she tries to understand their point of view, well…it doesn't make them feel better; it only angers them._ The mysterious man from District 9 – or wherever he's from – has predicted what the President's asking from me almost word-for-word. Nero wants me to become some sort of…Hunger Games representative? An icon or symbol, maybe?

"What does that entail?" I ask quietly.

"Ah, and here come the questions!" he laughs. "I am not going to skin you alive, Skye; I can see the worry on your trembling lips, so supple even from here. Your chocolate hair ending in curls like the shell of a conch...many a man in the Capitol would pay good money for that. But to business."

I shiver at his ominous words as he goes on: "You will return for the 99th Games this year. You will still mentor a tribute as all victors in the Capitol do…but you will share your experiences, your fears, your excitement and _enthusiasm_ of the Games with the audience during its airing, commenting and cheering on the event as it goes on. You will become just as recognizable a public face as Corinth's or old man Templesmith's."

"When the Districts think of the Hunger Games in years to come, they will remember how one victor from District 9 – one who captured their hearts and minds – came to love the Games and share them with the nation. The Hunger Games will not be seen a trial of punishment…but an act of love. My love for the people; entertainment, excitement, and a _challenge_ among the Districts for pride and glory. The thrill Districts 1, 2, and 4 have for the Games will extend to _every_ District in my realm, and I will build a time of peace and stability that Snow never knew. This is _my_ era now, a dynasty that I will ensure lasts for centuries…and you, Skye, will help me achieve my vision. The people loved your story. They love _you_. And as you show your love of the Hunger Games and the Capitol during this year's event live to all of Panem, they'll soon love _me._"

I swallow hard. They _don't_ love me, nor my story. I came home when 23 other tributes didn't, and outside of District 9, I'm just as bad as any other victor. Scion was right about that – no matter what kind of story I wrote in the Games, now I'm just another tool of the Capitol. The vandal who painted graffiti in the Victor's Village – _Agents of the Oppressors_ – spoke as much.

Unfortunately for me, Nero doesn't understand that. From his place here in the Presidential Mansion in the heart of the Capitol, he only sees the Hunger Games from this small, insular perspective. To him, my Games were a smashing success. To him, I am loved – because the _Capitol_ loved my story. Because of that, he wants me to become the symbol of the Districts embracing the Games with open arms, even as I cry at night thinking about the 99th Games that will force me back here to watch 23 children die all over again.

And because of his "vision", he's setting me up for a role that will turn me into the villain of the Districts.


	7. Out of Her Shell

_**A/N: I promise all loose ends will be tied up when all is said and done – although given that I like to keep a little mystery, some of those will no doubt stretch into later books. Can't reveal everything! At least, not yet. Also, per your recommendation, Minerva, I included a link in the last story and will do so in the final chapters throughout the series; it's a good suggestion so that people can easily follow. **_

_** AC: Do I get movie lines stuck in my head? Only when I make him an offer he can't refuse. In regards to clothing, I am garbage at describing clothing. Most of the time I go "Urgh – pants. Grunt." Coincidentally, that should also give you a clue as to the answer to your last question (although not sure why my gender is scary…unless I was a rampant computer program flinging nukes like baseballs, a la Skynet. That'd be fresh.)**_

* * *

The white haze of winter gives way to the rebirth of spring, and my return to District 9 brings new hope in the future despite the stormy cloud of the Capitol hanging over my head. The colors of bright blooming flowers and the smell of fresh leaves on the trees bring me out of the prison of my house and my head.

I see my friends and brother less and less as the majority of District 9's workers head back to the fields, sowing the seeds for this year's crop. Besides a passing glance here or a wave there, I only have one day each week to spend with the people I care about. It makes those days I _do_ have a certain kind of special.

The Square's brighter than normal as I walk into it, intent on stopping by the storefronts now that it's warm enough to go outside with a heavy winter coat on. The dull stones of the Hall of Justice and other buildings are spruced up by the green grass and fresh breeze, putting a little skip in my step as I stroll about. Reed and Shrike are set to meet up with me in an hour; we're heading down to the creek that runs through District 9 for some much-needed fun. They need to the time off, and for me…well, so do I.

I pick up bread, cheese, meat, and even a pastry – something I never would have been able to buy before becoming a victor. I suppose there are _some_ perks to this mess.

I run into Selene leaving the Square as I wait for my friends, but she's not headed for any happy occasion on this sunny day.

"Are those…" I start, pointing at three bottles of brownish liquid in her arms.

"Yeah, I'm gonna go get wasted," Selene bemoans, picking at the purple ribbon in my hair quizzically and appraising my white sundress with a look of disdain. "You look like a freakin' flower nymph."

"Thanks a lot; I think it's better than being drunk," I reply. "You go enjoy that."

"Psh. You go enjoy your sober fun," she scoffs, walking off and grumbling. Only Selene could find today a great time to give in to alcoholism and fist-fighting in the street.

I'm not kept waiting for long. Blonde-haired Shrike trots up before too long, her well-washed spring blouse and made-up hair a far cry from the casual, utilitarian garments of the working class majority in the Square. Shrike's not a girl who's ever felt guilty about her comparatively wealthy upbringing, but she does stand out amid the day-to-day trials of District 9's average worker.

"Where's Reed?" she asks after giving me an unexpected hug, nearly causing me to drop my basket of food. "I thought I was late."

"Probably also late," I say.

"Lazy guy. Wren made me late; she was bugging me to come along. She really looks up to you."

Wren is Shrike's 12 year-old sister; she'll turn 13 just days before this year's Reaping. She's a nice enough girl and a spitting image of her taller sister, but Wren lacks the color and confidence of Shrike. I've watched her in the past when I was younger when Shrike and her parents would be out watching over their fields and field hands and struck up a loose friendship with the girl, but I wouldn't say she ever "looked up to me."

"Why's she do that?" I ask.

"'Cuz you actually did something, Skye," Shrike explains as if it's obvious. "I mean…we don't really get victors here. I guess she could look up to me, but she's probably tired of me telling her to stop messing with her hair, or whatever."

Ah yes, "messing with her hair." We can dismiss the other problems in District 9. Life would have been easier if I'd been switched with Shrike at birth. Forget eating street rats; it's bed-head that's the nightmare for daughters of the landowners. Sometimes I wonder how we ever became friends, but I don't regret it. Shrike's one of the few girls I ever found a connection with.

Reed walks up a few minutes later, offering lame excuses for his tardiness that are quickly torn down by Shrike. At least we're making progress now.

The three of us trot out into the open fields and plains of District 9, passing by laborers headed to and from the newly-seeded fields. Great lines of brown earth stretch on for miles, waiting for the tips of fresh wheat and barley to poke through the ground. We come across the creek that runs through the district after a half-hour walk, setting down our things and enjoy the one thing we still know how to do well from our childhoods: Have fun.

The call of chirping birds alive with energy, the soft rustle of oak trees in the breeze, the sloshing of cool water under the warm sun as we splash around and tease each other…it's all a flashback to a happier time. Before the Games, before President Nero knew me, before Scion…even before Mako and Autumn. I didn't have much back then, but some part of me still wants to return to the innocent past. At least I hadn't killed anybody then, even if my future was relegated to marrying a boy or working in the fields.

Reed and Shrike are happy to see me coming out of my shell, and truth be told…I'm happier too. Maybe there is some part of me that can move on. Maybe I'm not doomed to become a drunk or a vegetable – or worse – like so many victors do.

As the sun sets and my food basket's empty, Shrike snoozes on the shore as Reed and I watch the orange glow of the late afternoon settle over the sky. Beams of orange light caress the mountains to the west, casting long shadows that draw across the miles and miles of plains like dark giants rising for the coming night. It's peaceful here, even in the midst of a district where people often can't find enough food or struggle under the daily toil of work. I'll take my home over the insanity of the Capitol.

"Is she asleep?" Reed looks over at Shrike on the other side of me.

"Yeah," I nod, looking down at my prone friend, her blonde hair damp and dirty in the fading light. "Why?"

"I dunno, just…it's good seeing you like this, Skye."

"Like how?"

"Like…this," he opens his arms and looks around at our surroundings. "We're just being normal. Having fun. Leaving the worries of tomorrow for tomorrow. It's nice for a change. You're not frowning about the Games or the Capitol; you're smiling instead. I love that."

I hang my hands over my knees and look down at the ground. The Capitol, the Games…they feel so far away here. Somewhere over those mountains to the west are all the things I want to forget, but I don't have to deal with them now. Not here. Not today.

"I guess," I say with a small laugh. "It's nice not having anybody expecting anything out of me."

Reed leans back on his hands and picks a white daisy out of the dirt. He turns to me with the flower in his fingers, plucking back a piece of my hair and fitting the blossom in over my ear. He gives me a warm smile, admiring his work and pushing another lock of my hair over it to set it in place.

"Had to add a finishing touch," he explains. "You're a beautiful girl; you know that?"

"Reed, stop," I wave away his compliment, biting my lip and staring at my foot.

"No, I mean it," he says. "But I want to ask if you meant what you said, too."

"What'd I say?"

"I remember watching you back during your interview with that Corinth guy, before you went into the arena," he says, looking out at the sun-kissed plains. "He asked you if there was someone special back home. You told him there was one guy…about your age; you'd always been friends with him, but you though you two could be something more. You _wished_ it could have been something more."

He looks me in the eye, a shadow falling over his face. The sun behind his head makes him look like he's shining as he asks me, "Did you mean it, Skye"

I freeze. I know what I was doing that night of the interviews, when Corinth asked me my final question. I was looking for sponsors. I was looking to make an impact – to drum up sympathy for a girl who had no chance in the Games. I used Reed to my advantage, but never meant anything of it.

But that was months and months ago. Time's passed. Mako told me to move on…to find someone else to love. And with the Capitol beating down a path to my door, I find myself wanting to hold on to what little I have left in District 9 before I'm caught up in the world of the Hunger Games as a victor.

Am I ready to move on?

"I don't know," I whisper.

"Well," Reed replies. "Then let me help you make up your mind."

Before I know what's happening, Reed wraps an arm around my neck, leans in, and kisses me.

A warm spark of excitement ignites deep in my gut as my bewilderment turns to shock. My mind blanks as I close my eyes, but I don't pull away – not when I haven't felt anything like this in so long. Not when I'm realizing just how much I've missed by hiding away in my house, fearful of the future. I squeak involuntarily as Reed pulls away, his eyes staring right into mine.

"Better than I imagined," he smiles.

"Reed…" I say, my voice shaky. I don't know _what_ to say. I don't even know what I feel.

"I have to go," he pats my arm and stands up. "Don't be a stranger, Skye."

I watch my friend – more than friend, maybe – walk away down the creek, headed back to town. All this time, he…I…I never knew…

Did I mean what I said up on stage? I've cried so many tears over Mako, and I've never – not _once_ – bothered to see whether the cure to my fears and pain was right in front of me.

"Hey," Shrike groggily wakes up beside me. "Where'd Reed go? Did you two have a fight or something?"

* * *

Buzzing insects of the night fly about as Shrike and I walk slowly back to the Victor's Village. She's far more a fan of my well-furnished house than I am, and it was only fair to offer her the chance to stay for the night. A more modest person would have declined; Shrike, on the other hand, was all too eager to accept my invitation to stay over.

Walking from the creek back to the Village leads us on the outskirts of the Processing Ward – not a place I want to dive into when it's dark out. I don't expect trouble as we walk around the outermost run-down shacks and homes, but the people who live here are poor and desperate. I doubt they would take kindly to a victor and the daughter of a landowner strolling through their beaten-up ward.

"It's so dark here," Shrike comments as we pass a single-story house on the verge of falling apart. "There's always lights on in the other Wards…but here…nothing."

"I get used to it in the Village," I shrug. "Nobody ever has lights on when only three of us live there."

"I guess so. It's just…weird, ya know?"

I'm happy for the darkness and quiet. It beats the never-ending display of lights in the Capitol; I had to adjust the pictures on the walls of the Training Center just to sleep there during the Victory Tour. I don't know how these people ever rest.

Shrike grabs my arm unexpectedly. I look around, spotting a man in a plaid shirt with a long, gray beard watching us from a half-collapsed porch. That's not new to me; back around my old home, such a sight was a daily occurrence. Folks weren't as run-down there as they are here, but nobody's particularly well-off among the field hands like my father and brother.

"Let's go a little faster," Shrike says quietly.

I've never known Shrike to be a girl who fears _anything_, but something she saw – whether it was the man on the porch or something else – has her spooked. I hold off from downplaying her suggestion, picking up the pace and letting her hang on my arm. We'll be back to the Village in minutes, anyway.

"Hey," a drunk, suggestive male voice calls from behind us.

Shrike whimpers as I look over my shoulder. A tall, young man in a flannel shirt watches me and scratches his underarm, his head cocked to the side and an amused look playing across his face. I ignore him and hurry Shrike along; now _I'm _getting spooked.

Another two men step out in front of us, dressed similarly and sporting ragged facial hair. The taller of the two takes a step forward as I stop, holding on to Shrike and feeling adrenaline shooting through my veins.

_Haven't felt that in a while…_

The man's bulky and tough, with a scar running across his chin. He's clearly a veteran of the processing plants, and something tells me he doesn't like two teenage girls walking through his territory at night.

"Hey lil' girls," he calls lewdly, laughing as he does so. "Yeah. Where you goin'?"

"We're going home," I say a little louder than I intended.

Shrike's shaking on my arm. She's out of her comfort zone by miles, and with three of them and two of us…I'm not liking these odds if these men are looking for a fight.

"Heh," the tall man laughs. "My home, maybe."

He pulls something long and heavy out of his shirt – a brick. I step back as Shrike breathes in sharply next to me. _Not good_.

"Skye…" Shrike whispers next to me.

"C'mon, we just lookin' for a lil' fun," the man grins disgustingly. "You lil' girls tellin' me you don't like fun?"

"We're not _little girls_," I say, steeling my resolve and balling my fists. "And we're not looking for trouble."

"Ha! Well that's too bad, 'cuz you found it."

I pull Shrike behind me. I won't let these men have their way with us: "Trouble's going to have to get through me first, then."


	8. Hiding in the Shadows

_**A/N: Charlie, thanks for the review! As for said "horrible thought", however, well, I'm a rather horrible person…**_

_** Minerva, Thanks! And I've mapped up the big picture for the series, yeah. I adapt a lot of the small things on the fly as I get into my characters' heads, but if I did that with the big picture, I'd in no way be able to link up themes, arcs, and such without going all over the place. Heh, I already think I get too convoluted some times as it is, even with planning. **_

_**You guys are awesome reviewers. Love the ongoing suggestions and commentary; every bit helps me craft my story better to what I feel people will enjoy.**_

* * *

"Alright, if that's what you're into…"

The man tosses his brick in the air and catches it, smiling cruelly as he steps towards us. I can't talk my way out of this: I stoop down to the ground, snatching up a small rock and hurling it at the man's face quickly before he can react.

"Ah!" he shields his eyes as the rock strikes him square in the chin.

I fling a handful of dirt at the man behind me, grab Shrike's hand, and take off running deeper into the Processing Ward.

"Come on!" I yell at my friend, afraid to let go. I doubt Shrike would last ten seconds against them.

"Skye, where are we going?" Shrike shrieks. "What are we doing?"

"Come _on!_" I repeat, tossing a look over my shoulder. Two of the men are hurrying after us, shouting curses and catching up quickly. I'm fast and Shrike's an athletic runner, but we're not going to outrun these guys. I don't even know where I'm going; I've only been in the Processing Ward a few times in my life, and the ramshackle buildings and run-down huts here are as alien to me as the other districts.

I sprint down a side street, my feet pounding on the fresh grass as I gulp down air and half-drag Shrike behind me. I turn towards the largest building I can see two streets over, hoping _some_ kind soul will be there to help us out.

"Get the hell back here!" one of the men behind us yells. "You don't screw with us, little girl!"

_Too late for that_.

I round a corner and sprint towards the wide, three-story oak building rising up in front of me. It's beaten-down and torn half to ruins, its façade collapsing and paint long since chipped away. A small porch in front of a double set of doors has crumbled away, leaving only two wooden rocking chairs and a table as evidence that people once lived here.

The posted sign a few feet in front of the porch tells me what this place once was: District 9's orphanage, now abandoned and left for ruin. But it's not _entirely_ abandoned…someone sits in the shadows on the porch, still and quiet in one of the chairs.

Before I have the chance to call for help, one of the men sprints around the bend and punches me square in the face. I fall back and trip, landing on my rear as pain explodes across my cheek. Shrike screams as another man rounds the bend and grabs her in one hand, throwing her down to the ground next to me. A foot steps on my chest, pinning me to the ground as the tall man walks up laughing.

"I'm not lettin' you get away that easy," he laughs, holding on to a small cut on his chin where my rock hit him. "Gotta repay you for this. Good thing I know just what the ladies like."

"Wait," I panic. "Wait, I can – "

"I know who you are," he laughs, the smell of alcohol on his breath. "And I don't particularly care. You ain't got no right to be prancin' around where you don't belong. You and all your rich shits, like this pretty little girl you're dragging around? You're all gonna get yours before long. Oh yeah. But tonight…I don't think none of them _Peacekeeper_ pigs are gonna care about what I do to you."

I glance desperately over at the figure on the ruined orphanage porch. He's stood up, slowly walking forward and catching the attention of the tall man.

"Hey buddy," the man says. "Why don't you go lose yourself? This ain't your business."

"Isn't it?" the shadowy figure replies. "I think you made it my business when you started threatening two kids who did nothing to you."

The tall man cocks his head, a smile playing across his lips. "Oh, I get it. You want to die. Tryin' to be some noble hero?"

"No," the figure answers. "I never tried to be that. But if it's death you want to play with…well, I never felt guilty about death when someone else deserved it."

A nervous chill runs across my spine as Omaha steps into the light, a shadow playing across his face. My typically quiet and reserved mentor wears a dangerous expression on his face, his lip curled into a mean snarl. One hand's behind his back, the other twitching and dancing across the hem of his shirt.

The tall man laughs, unfazed despite recognizing my mentor: "All your type have a death wish tonight? Suit yourself. Nobody here's gonna miss you."

He walks forwards Omaha, tossing his brick in the air as I hold my breath. Omaha tosses me a look and steps back into the shadow, his arm tensing up.

The man swings his brick, but Omaha sidesteps and catches his arm with ease. In a flash he sweeps the arm he's kept behind his back forward, something shiny flashing in the low light.

"_Gurgh!"_ the tall man stumbles, falling back into the light.

Shrike shrieks when she sees it. The man's throat has been gruesomely slit, spraying blood across the ground like a red hose. He falls to all fours, shocked and looking up as Omaha kicks him to the ground. In Omaha's hand is a reaping sickle, like the type used out in the fields to harvest wheat…but it's covered in blood.

"I know your type," my mentor places a foot on his blood-disgorging throat and leans down into his face. "Thieves. Killers. Predators. There are so many of you here in the poorest Ward of District 9, but when you could stand for something more, you choose to be no better than the Peacekeepers. You're worse. I'm doing a favor for all of us born in this horrible place."

He kicks the man in the face, letting him bleed out as he turns to the other two holding Shrike and I down: "You two haven't tempted me yet. But there's a certain apathy in me over getting rid of people like you…you can leave now, or you can join him."

"You gonna get yours," the man holding Shrike down lets her go, stepping back with his friend and backpedaling away from Omaha. "You don't screw with the _Vox_. Not too long, we're gonna make you, the Peacekeepers, and all you Capitol whores pay for what you've done."

"Hmm. Not tonight, I think," Omaha raises an eyebrow. "Painting derogatory terms on houses and setting yourselves on fire doesn't frighten me. Trying to take advantage of two teenage girls isn't scary. It's sad."

The two men spit curses at Omaha and run, leaving the three of us alone in the dim light.

Shrike crawls over to me and bursts out in tears, crying into my shoulder as I grab her in a hug. I stare over at the tall man's cooling body: The way Omaha killed him, it was so…so _natural_. Like he'd done it before. I'd never seen him even speak up in anger, but when push came to shove, he cut down a man without thinking.

"You shouldn't be here," Omaha hooks the sickle on his belt, wiping a patch of blood off his arm. "This isn't a place you girls should run around in. They don't like our type here."

"They just…they ganged up on us," I explain as Shrike continues to cry on me. "I thought I could lose them in here. What…what are you doing here?"

"Losing myself in memories wasn't enough tonight," he says grimly, staring back at the broken-down orphanage. "I had to go speak to them. Let's get your friend home and leave."

Shrike's all too happy to get out of the Processing Ward as we walk her across the district back to her family home. It was better than letting her stay in the Victor's Village, right on the edge of the Ward. I doubt she'd even be able to sleep given the way she hangs on to me all the way back to the landowner homes despite Omaha walking with us.

"Stay out of that place," Omaha tells me as we leave Shrike's home after accepting her teary thanks and getting her through her front door. "The Ward's not kind to anyone who isn't them…and most of the time, they're not kind to each other, either. The Peacekeepers have run them down so long that many have become little more than a cornered dog, baring their teeth and attacking out of desperation."

"Thanks," I say, keeping my head down. "It just…I felt weird. Almost like I was back in the arena again, with something horrible chasing me."

"It changes you," Omaha looks out on the dark fields grimly. "What's danger when you've already faced the worst the Capitol can throw at you? Killing that man…I don't even see him as a man. He's a thing that would have killed you – or at least taken advantage of you – if I didn't kill him. When I've already taken a life in a way that breaks me, taking one that deserves to be ended is ordinary."

"What he said at the end," I say. "The 'Vox.' What's that?"

"As far as I can tell, they're a recent gang that started up in the Ward at the end of last summer," he replies. "They're more organized than the usual rabble-rousers among the poor. It's like they're trying to make life difficult for the Peacekeepers and terrorize anybody who isn't them. The guys who paint graffiti, the woman who burned herself in the Square back a week before your Tour, the people who occasionally tip over a grain cart in the plants or kill an animal or two at some landowner's home…that's them. I don't know what they're goal is, and I can't tell what he meant in saying that 'we'll get ours,' but do know this...bottle people up long enough, and eventually they boil over."

I swallow hard. Those men tonight showed me they didn't care who I was. If the President thinks throwing me in front of Panem and making me express my enthusiasm for the Hunger Games will somehow make everyone feel better, he's sadly mistaken.

It's pretty clear these people have no love for me.


	9. Descent Into Darkness

_**A/N: Minerva: It's partially intended. Part of what I'm trying to do is blur the lines between good and bad; in The Hunger Games trilogy, mostly it was "not-Capitol = good, Capitol = bad" with the exception of peeps like Coin. I like exploring what's in between good and bad, where most people lie. Glad you like Omaha's character, though!**_

_** AC: Well, if nothing else, at least I'm shocking people. That's progress.  
**_

* * *

Hot weather returns as spring merged into early summer. Green sprouts of wheat grow into golden stalks; the cool spring breeze that rolled down the plains turns into a hot summer wind before afternoon thunderstorms pour rain down on District 9. Dust and grime pollute the streets, and rats scrabble about looking for a bite to eat while keeping me up at night.

What _really_ keeps me up at night is finally here: The Hunger Games are back.

Sage wakes me up early on the day of the Reaping. Selene and Omaha are coming to get me in the late morning; since I'm in my first year as a victor, both will be coming along as mentor while I'm dragged about the Capitol for various events and celebrations. I haven't told either of them – anybody, really – what President Nero _really_ wants me to do. I guess they'll find out; I can only hope they'll understand my side of it.

"Skye," Sage says as I sit in the living room of my house, staring at my feet with a blank expression. "Are you gonna eat anything before you leave?"

"I don't wanna go," I mutter, ignoring his question. "I don't want to go back."

He sighs and takes a seat next to me, wrapping his strong arm around my shoulders: "Nobody here likes this day. Heck, I can't even be Reaped anymore and it still feels sick – even with you back home. I can't pretend to understand what you do in the Capitol, but listen: Whatever happens, you'll come back."

"Well duh, Sage. I'm not a tribute this year."

"Yeah, that's true," he shrugs. My brother's a little dim at times. "But you can't save everyone. If the kids you get this year…if they follow you up as a victor, awesome. If they don't, you can't beat yourself up over it. You're just their mentor. You can't be their savior."

"What else am I supposed to do?" I swat the couch with my hand in frustration. "At least I could sorta control things last year. All I can do is watch now."

"Then it's no different than every year before you were picked," he says. "Except this year, you don't have to wait out the entire Reaping worrying about being picked. Think about it. Heck, at least _I_ don't have to stress about you coming home. That's a step up."

"Makes me feel great."

"Heh. I try," he says,

Sage stands up and kisses my forehead, patting me on the shoulder: "Look, sis, I have to go to the fields for a few hours before the Reaping. I doubt I'll see you until you get back from the Capitol, so…good luck. No matter what anyone else says, I know you're giving it everything you've got."

"Sage, wait," I stammer before he leaves.

"Yeah?"

"Just…" I stumble. "Nothing. I'll see you when I get back."

He gives me a reassuring smile before he steps out of my door, leaving me alone again. How am I supposed to tell him that I'll be thrown in front of the cameras, singing the praises of the Capitol in a giant propaganda stunt? Will he even understand that?

Will anybody who still believes in me?

I push the thoughts out of my head: _Nothing I can do about that now. _I toss on a white summer dress, tie my hair back in my usual ponytail, and add a yellow ribbon for a bit of color. I'm not going to kill myself looking good for the Capitol; I figure Magritte will nearly kill me with his stylist talk anyway. No need to do his job for him.

Selene bangs on my door a few hours later. She's already working on a drink despite it not being noon yet. _Success! She's moved from painkiller drugs to alcohol! That's rehabilitation step 1. _I've seen her a lot more than Omaha recently; in fact, since that night where he saved Shrike and I from the thugs in the Ward, I've only seen Omaha twice. Selene says he always grows quieter and more reclusive as the Games approach, but I still worry about him. His mind's in a whole different place from Selene and I's.

"Isn't it a little early for that?" I ask Selene disapprovingly as I close my door.

The drink matches her appearance. Where I tried to look nice, Selene seems to have tried to look as bad as possible: She's dressed in a white tank top with beer stains and canvas shorts, her normally wild hair even more of a mess than usual.

"Only if you call this early," she grunts, taking a drink from the brown liquid sloshing about in her wooden cup. "Early for drinking is like…an hour after you wake up. Any time after that is fair game. You should get in on it."

"No, thank you," I say. The last thing I want to do is turn to something addicting.

Our Reaping's a little earlier than it was last year, and children are already packing the streets and headed towards the Square. Some of those who could be picked today are older than me; some bigger, some stronger. Most look like they won't have a chance, whether they're too skinny, too short, or diseased.

_Was that me last year? _I think. _Looking like I don't have a chance? I certainly felt like it_.

"Can I find my friends before we get started?" I ask Selene as we walk down the dusty avenue towards the center of town. "Just to…you know…"

"Nah, we have to be up there fast," Selene shakes her head, kicking at a weed growing in the dust. "You'll have a little time in between the end of the Reaping and when we go to the train. Unless, you know…they're Reaped. Then you'll have a lot of time."

I don't even want to think about that. I doubt Shrike has much of a chance – she doesn't take any tesserae as the daughter of wealthier parents – but Reed's certainly at risk. Considering how much time we've been spending together lately, the last thing I want to do is chance losing yet _another_ boy who has feelings for me in the arena.

I start thinking about anyone else who could be Reaped. Autumn's sister from District 7, Summer, will definitely be in play. That would be _horrible_; I wouldn't even be able to get sponsorships for her, being from a different district.

On the other hand, a new batch of bloodthirsty volunteers will almost certainly arise from Districts 1, 2, and 4 this year. That will be its own sort of Hell.

Omaha greets us on the edge of the Square, looking bedraggled and tired. Like Selene, he's made little effort to look presentable. Great. Pin the cameras on me from the outset.

"Cicero's already here," Omaha mumbles to us, scratching a week-old beard that desperately needs trimming. "He's peppy as usual."

"Gah. Dammit," Selene spits. "Why can't he just…have a hovercraft accident or something? Or go play in a fire? Why is it that every other escort for the other districts is some excitable idiot man or woman with green hair…but we get the fool who thinks this is some sort of civic duty? It's a damn curse."

"Maybe you can ask him yourself," Omaha sighs. "I'm not in the mood for talking to him."

"You okay?" I ask, concerned.

"Ask me after the Games," he replies wearily.

We take a side alley behind the Justice Hall into the Square and up to the platform where we'll sit for the Reaping. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of kids have already filed in; I won't be able to pick out Reed or Shrike in that sea of nervousness from up here. I can only hope they'll be safe.

Cicero's standing on the platform with his hands clasped in front of him as we make our way up. He's dressed in typically bland fashion, with an all-brown suit and pants combo topped off with an awful black beret and gray sash. If our escort's trying his hand on fashion, he's failed miserably. Even _I_ am more conscious of my clothes, and my fashion sense involves lying around my house in old shirts.

"Ah," Cicero greets us. "Beautiful as ever, Skye. I see your two companions…"

"Yeah, we look like dirt," Selene smiles sickeningly at him. "You look like someone took a patriotic dump. Ah, forget it."

She noisily takes a seat in one of the chairs on stage, cursing under her breath.

"Do you need me to do anything?" I ask Cicero, trying to be friendly.

"Ah, no," he waves me away. "Simply look the part of a proud victor. I will handle the speaking duties…a drag, really. It's all rehearsed speech."

_Probably more of a drag for the two kids who get Reaped today. What a drag, fighting to the death!_ I think.

I slump down next to Selene as the stream of kids filing in dies down into a trickle. The Square's packed tight from side to side; most people in District 9 will be watching from giant screens set up in the side streets. We're too big of a district to cram everyone in here; come to think of it, I don't know how _any_ district can fit everyone in the center of town. Maybe District 12, but many of the districts are bigger than they look.

"You know what I've learned during my umpteen Reapings up here?" Selene asks me.

"What?"

"I can recite Cicero's dumb speech almost by memory. 'War…terrible war. A motherless child. A Capitol unleashing pediatric gladiator fests. Yay killing; go dead kids!' That's the gist of it."

I can't help but laugh at Selene's stupid joke. She's just trying to make me relax, but at least _someone_ isn't as anxious as everyone in the Square, me included.

"I can't wait to have the question of the day answered," Selene spits on the stage. "Will he pick girls or boys first? _The excitement!_"

"This is what, the tenth year in a row you've done this?" Omaha sighs next to her.

"You can listen to me or you can listen to Skye bombarding you with questions. C'mon. The choice is clear."

"What a great choice."

Cicero soon launches his usual "Welcome, District 10!" spiel. Omaha's nodding off two chairs over while our mayor on the other side of the stage looks half-asleep himself. Selene's still swearing and spitting next to me, not even laying up as Cicero's "very special video" plays. She intentionally quotes everything wrong to me, looking to get a laugh; by this time, however, butterflies are jumping around in my stomach again.

_Please don't pick my friends. Please_. _I don't think I could live with that_.

"And now, that time we've been waiting for," Cicero announces as soon as the video finishes. "The selection of our two tributes to represent District 9 before the nation. We'll begin with the boys this year."

"Oh my goodness; I am so shocked," Selene mutters, trying to imitate Corinth Terrance at the interviews by grasping her face in her hands. "The horror! All I know is that the odds are in favor of me being drunk within two hours of leaving the district."

I tune Selene's complaining out as Cicero strolls up to the first glass bowl, plunging his bony hand into the sea of slips inside. A hush falls over the Square as he plucks one out, neatly unfolding the paper. I hold my breath, hoping against hope it isn't a name I recognize.

It's not: "Aston Slade."

A red-headed boy stumbles out of the 12 year-old section, causing me to catch my breath. _Oh no!_ Plenty of boys in the crowd are older than me, and what happens? They're spared as a kid who's not even a teenager yet is forced into the Games. No one volunteers for Aston as he climbs the steps nervously; I can see him shaking and quivering from here as Cicero nearly drags him on stage.

His chances already look slim. He's only about as tall as me – at best – and he's underfed. Aston's probably the son of processing plant workers; he probably grew up poor, with plenty of nights of nothing to eat. His freckled face and darting brown eyes show the fear welling up in him. He'll be able to eat all he wants now…right before a burly volunteer chews him up and spits him out like a bad appetizer.

Selene grumbles in disappointment next to me. Even she's not happy about how this Reaping's going.

"And for the girls," Cicero says, letting go of my first trainee and walking over to select my second.

I hold my breath again as the Square once falls silent once more. Every girl's heart skips a beat as Cicero plucks a slip from the bowl, unwrapping the sheet and reading the carefully-etched writing inside.

"Our tribute," he smiles. "Wren Kearney."

It takes all my self-control to hold back a desperate sob. Wren – Shrike's sister – is my second tribute. The little blonde-haired girl who just turned 13 – the girl I used to look after when I was younger – is who I'll have to try and get through the arena.

This is not possible. This has to be a joke. Someone's messing with my head.

It all becomes reality as little Wren takes a nervous step forward from the 13 year-old section. She's even smaller than Aston, a tiny speck among the huge crowd that watches her with relieved eyes. Wren paws at her green dress before a Peacekeeper pushes her forward towards the stage. She stumbles, catching herself before her uninspiring debut before the cameras turns even worse.

"No," I hear myself say. "No, no…no…"

_How do you pick her, Cicero? You could move your hand an inch to the left and pick anyone else! Anyone else!_

Now the game has changed. With tributes I didn't know, failing to come back with a victor would be terrible, but not the end of the world. I'd still have my friends, brother, and mentors here with me and believing in me. Now, however…if I fail to get little Wren out alive, will Shrike ever look at me the same? Her death will be my failure; my loss.

I've got a lot more than just the President to worry about.

Wren flashes me a scared glance as she takes her place next to Aston. She's terrified, and for good reason: The volunteers will be twice her size. The arena last year would have torn her to pieces, just like it did the 12 year-old girl from District 10 who fell to Tethys's arrows. What new horror will be waiting this year?

"Oh boy," Selene groans next to me. She saw Wren's look and understands the expression on my face. "This is just going to be unpleasant."

Peacekeepers force Wren and Aston into the Justice Hall as Omaha, Selene, and I step off the stage. I don't even get a foot on the ground when I'm intercepted by the last people I want to see right now.

"Skye!" Shrike runs up to me with Reed in tow, tears streaming down her face. "Skye!"

I grab her in a hug, waving Selene and Omaha off: "I'm so sorry, Shrike. I'm sorry.

"Sorry's not enough!" she shouts as she hits me in the shoulder with her palm. "She's only 13, don't let this happen!"

"Shrike, there's nothing she can do," Reed pulls at her, receiving an angry slap for his efforts.

"I don't care!" Shrike's hysterical at this point, bawling and shrieking at me like a wounded animal. "I won't lose my sister!"

"I'll bring her back," I say as I grab Shrike's shoulders. "She'll come back."

She chokes and grabs me in a hug: "Please don't let her die. _Please_."

"Go see her," I pat her on the back, trying my best to comfort her in her panic. "She needs you, okay?"

Shrike nods and sniffs loudly, looking in my eyes one last time and retreating into the Hall of Justice.

"Skye," Reed grabs my arm before I leave for the train. "Just…good luck, okay? I'll be waiting for you."

He kisses me on my forehead, flashing me a smile before turning and merging back into the dissipating crowd.

I've made Shrike a promise I probably can't keep. Get Wren, no doubt one of the smallest tributes in this year's Games, through the arena alive? I feel guilty: Already I'm discounting poor Aston, ignoring him in my desperation to keep my friend's sister alive. How easily I'm willing to sacrifice one tribute for another when one means something to me.

What am I becoming?


	10. Feelings of the Heart

_**A/N: Platinum: Not here, haha…I'm trying to keep it T.**_

_** AC: Volunteer? Heh, I use the term "volunteer" as a derisive jab at D1/2/4 for a reason. Nobody does it who's sane. As for Reed…well, he has plenty of story left, haha. And yeah, Skye's last name is pronounced that way; it's a reference (along with several other names – Omaha, Ames, etc) to the relative location of District 9.**_

* * *

"Skye, will you stop for just a _minute?_ This stuff happens. It's the Hunger Games. People get Reaped. You should know that by now."

Selene's attempts to calm me down aren't helping as I pace around the dining car of the train, grabbing my hair in a fit of nerves. _Calm down? _How can I be calm when I'm not only facing whatever the President has in store for me, but also trying to get Wren through the arena alive – all while keeping my sanity? Just "Calm down?"

"No!" I exclaim, picking up a fork from one of the glittering chrome side tables nearby and pitching it at the wall in anger. I'm rewarded with a loud _clank!_ as I turn away from my mentor. "I'm not just gonna calm down! This just…this isn't happening. Our odds already aren't good of having two victors in a row. They just _happen_ to pick somebody I know?"

"Yes," Selene replies simply. "That _does_ happen and that's what _did_ happen. And nice optimism, by the way – good way to get started, saying our odds suck."

"I'm just saying, we're District 9 and we have two kids who are barely – or not even – teenagers! How can our odds be good?"

Cicero's voice leaks in through the door to the lounge car. Wren and Aston are here – and my hysterics aren't going to help them through the horrible feelings they'll be dealing with right now. I can still remember how _I_ felt boarding the train, thinking I was seeing District 9 for the last time.

For one of them at least, that's exactly what's happening.

"I better go make sure everyone's settled in," Omaha steps up from a blue plush chair, sighing and running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Try not to kill each other."

My older mentor lets the door shut with a loud _thud_ as he walks out, leaving Selene and I to deal with my emotional turmoil. I plant my fists on the shined silver walls, staring out a crystal-clear window at the golden wheat fields surrounding the station. Why? Why am I being thrown into this meat grinder of a situation, where I have no control to do anything but play along and hope for the best? I would have felt terrible mentoring even two 18 year-old tributes, but I could have at least _dealt_ with the fallout of older and more mature kids. This…this is unbelievable. Unfathomable.

"I guess we should…join him," I nod towards the door.

"No," Selene commands, her face stern across the chromed dining table. "You're not going in there just yet. You need to cool down."

"I'm _fine_," I snap at her. "I know what I'm supposed to do."

"No you don't," she says. "You're all kinds of messed up. What do you think our two kids are going to think if they see one of their mentors – even if you're going to be spending more time around the Capitol people than most mentors – crying and losing her mind? They're going to be even more terrified than they already are. We're supposed to be their rock, Skye. Heavens know Cicero isn't; nor are their idiot stylists. You can't be supportive if you're dealing with your own crazy thoughts."

"They're not crazy."

"Then you're crazy. You're staying here with me until you're done crying your eyes out."

I cross my arms and slump down in a seat, putting on an exaggerated scowl as I watch one of the three televisions in the room screening live coverage of the Reapings. Corinth and Claudius pick apart District 11's forgettable pair of a small but well-built boy of fourteen and a lanky, twig-like girl of seventeen. Neither of the hosts gives them much of a chance of surviving beyond the third day – _good heavens, what kind of chance did they give Aston and Wren?_

Selene sighs and pours a smelly clear liquid into a glass, dropping in a pair of ice cubes and flopping down onto a spacious red couch. I don't care if she's not happy with me; _she_ doesn't know how I'm feeling. She doesn't know what it's like to have not only the President, but also one of my best friends expecting the best out of me.

Omaha returns twenty minutes later, looking even more worn-out and tired than before. He swipes a biscuit from a bronze tray before speaking to us, staring out the window as the train lurches to a start.

"Anything interesting from the Reapings?" he asks solemnly.

"No," Selene yawns. "Y'know, sometimes I feel like we're a dysfunctional family. Omaha, you and I are like parents constantly dealing with shit, and Skye's our emotionally unstable teenage daughter."

I _hmph_ angrily from my seat, but Omaha's not interested: "We're gonna have a lot of work to do with those two; they're…not exactly ready-made tributes."

"Is that what you said about me last year?" I say, still stewing in my frustration.

"Not about Ames," Selene fires back.

"C'mon, let's not do this," Omaha feebly interjects. "I'm not in the mood to sort out fights between you two."

"So why aren't they ready-made tributes?" Selene acquiesces.

"Wren's probably a nice girl," Omaha replies. "But she's not a talker, so I have no idea what she's thinking. Aston seems like a good enough kid, but some of the questions he asked…he's gonna get a rough wake-up call when training stars."

"What'd he ask?"

"If he really had to kill anybody."

Selene snorts derisively, drawing my ire again: "They're 12 and 13. You can't just expect them to want to gut everybody."

"Let's dump you back in the arena, and we can see how far that sentiment gets you," Selene stands up, draining the contents of her glass. "Are they in their rooms?"

"Yeah. I wanted to give them privacy to think things out until dinner."

"Fine. Let's watch the early recap in an hour and see what we're up against; at dinner, we can go over anything in-depth with those two. Meanwhile, I'm grabbing more of this…stuff."

Corinth and Claudius open up coverage of the tributes after the final Reaping – District 5's – is over. At first glance, it's immediately obvious that District 9's overwhelmed.

District 1 offers up two typical attractive and eager tributes: A blonde-haired, smiling, tall girl named Lapis and a lanky, silver-haired boy named Jasper. They both volunteer for less-endowed kids and look ready to fight, but they don't make much of an impression on me. No doubt they're well-trained with weapons, though; it'd be foolish to ignore them.

The real danger's from Districts 2 and 4. The former presents a boy named Deimos, whose long, black hair and bounding stride up to take his place as a volunteer immediately speak about what kind of tribute he is: He's a boy trained to kill and do nothing _but_ kill. He's not as big as some District 2 male tributes in the past have been, but he's of the same mental build.

District 2's girl is a far cry from Tethys. This girl, Alecto, is a behemoth. She's at least six feet tall, her skin rough and pale and bristling with muscle. Her brown hair's cropped high and tight, and she volunteers with such a snarling voice that it's hard to figure out if she's a tribute or a Peacekeeper. Her broad shoulders and her unnerving way of turning her head without moving her eyes gives me an uneasy feeling.

District 4's advantage isn't raw killing power, but pedigree. While the girl from the oceanic district, a pretty, red-haired tribute named Cormorant, isn't much different than District 1's two Capitol-ready kids, District 4's boy is something else entirely.

I know him. Mako spoke of him with distaste once in the arena: He's Finnick Odair's son Triton, the "golden boy" my ally described with certain venom. He doesn't volunteer – he's Reaped – but no one replaces him. I think even the most enthusiastic kids in the audience know not to do that.

"That's a set-up," Selene comments. "You can't tell me that's a coincidence. This is a ratings bonanza for the Capitol. Reap the son of the most popular victor since…ever? Yeah, someone messed with that Reaping bowl."

I'm inclined to agree. 17 year-old Triton's everything the Capitol audience wants: With his bronze hair, tanned skin, easy-going smile, and lean, muscular build, I can imagine vain socialites already shelling out money to sponsor him. He tells his name to District 4's escort with a smooth confidence and walks with an aggressive, arrogant demeanor that speaks of a boy who's sure he'll win.

I immediately hate him. Finnick and Annie were nice to me in District 4 during the Victory Tour, but between my desire to keep Wren alive, my first impression of Triton as just another arrogant volunteer (even if he _didn't_ volunteer), and his almost certain co-favorite status along with Alecto, I can't help but hope he's taken out quickly. There's no way he's like Mako, willing to team up with "weaker" tributes out of honor. No, Triton looks like he won't have a problem mauling anyone in his way.

_Maybe Alecto will kill him off_, I think. _Play the Games like Tethys like year and take out another volunteer early._

"Hope Annie's alright," Omaha opines behind me. "Finnick's probably been expecting this for a while."

"Alright?" I question. "That kid looks like he's enjoying himself."

"Remind me to keep you away from the other victors," Omaha sighs. "You know, we actually had a good team going last year with you and the boy from 4."

"Lightning don't strike twice in back-to-back years," Selene interjects. "Or maybe it does. But I doubt it. Either way, counting on teaming up again isn't really…smart?"

The other districts hardly offer consolation if we're on the hunt for allies. District 5's Reaping brings forth probably the best-looking tribute in the district's history: A tall, brown-haired, 18 year-old girl named Phoebe. She would fit right in with District 1's tributes if she didn't give her district's escort a look cold enough to freeze fire; clearly, she's not enthused about the Games.

I sigh in relief at District 7's Reaping: Little Summer's not picked fortunately (I guess there isn't a conspiracy against me), but a strong, obsidian-skinned boy named Ash has no problem walking up to the stage without the slightest hesitation. District 8's girl, a short but tough-looking redhead named Kevlar, also looks like a tough combatant. Besides that, however, most of the tributes are – as usual – scared, frightened children thrown into the horrifying nightmare that is the Hunger Games. They're just like we are this year…just like I was.

"Well," Selene grunts as Corinth wraps up his coverage. "Bad luck, as usual. Anybody see any great alliance leads? No? Me either. We might be settling for the 'run and hide and let everyone kill everyone else' tactic that fails every time."

"We could try talking up Haymitch, Thresh, and the other outlying victors," Omaha shrugs. "Besides that, we'll have to wait until training to see what happens. The Games these days lend themselves to alliances; if our two kids are stuck by themselves, they'll get run down and killed quickly. I'm not willing to chance going it alone."

I have to agree with Selene. Apart from the other scared tributes crying or freezing up when called, I can't imagine many teammates for Wren and Aston. After throwing out the volunteers, I'm left at a loss at why the tougher tributes would want to ally with District 9.

_You were happy to ally with Autumn_, I tell myself. _Of course, you were also one of those crying tributes, so that's pointless_.

"Why don't we just…make sure Wren and Aston are okay?" I say. "They're not just faceless tributes to compare against the other districts. They're still people."

Selene throws up her hands: "You know what? Whatever. Go for it. We'll stay here and actually strategize."

I throw her a nasty look before walking out, letting the door slam behind me. I stop to eavesdrop before heading back to the sleeper cars as Selene speaks up again.

"I probably shouldn't have let her go," she tells Omaha. "She's all kinds of messed up and not ready for this."

"No, it's fine," Omaha replies. "She's not great at making big plans, but she's empathetic and understands people. Wren and Aston need someone like that. They need someone with a heart…that's Skye, if nothing else. Give her a chance. She won't disappoint us."

I smile. Good old Omaha – if we are some sort of dysfunctional family like Selene said, then he's the understanding father figure to her pessimistic and critical mothering. At least I have one supporter.

I make my way back down the train as we pick up speed. The brown plains outside District 9 rush by in a blur as I push open the door to the first sleeper car. Cicero's tut-tutting around in the bedroom, but I have no desire to talk to our escort. I have a feeling he's only made Aston and Wren's anxiety over the Reaping even worse.

The second car's bedroom is empty. I get no reply when I tap on the door, and when I take a look inside, I'm met with an empty, untouched room. Strange – last year, cars two and three housed Ames and I. This was my room…yet now there's no one here.

On to the next car. I tap softly on the door, calling out with a whispered "Hello?"

Wren, still clad in her now-wrinkled green Reaping dress, peaks out with a pair of reddened eyes through the door's opening.

"Skye!" she shouts, wrenching the door open and grabbing me in a hug.

I take a step back from the force of her embrace, wrapping my arms about the girl – tribute – I'm tasked with saving from the Games. I don't say a word as she cries on me; I don't need to say anything. I pat her on her blond-haired head as I look up at Aston with a touch of embarrassment. He's sitting on the long, messy bed in the room and trying to look tough, but the red in his eyes shows that he's had a tough time dealing with the Reaping as well.

"Sorry, Aston," I say. "I'm Skye; I'm one of your mentors."

"It's okay. Wren said she knew you," he says in a deeper, richer voice than I expected for a 12 year-old tribute. "We agreed to stick together."

I let go of Wren, ushering her back into the room as I step in. That's the first good news I've heard today: Even though Wren and Aston's chances aren't good, at least they'll have each other. They're off to a much better start than Ames and I last year.

"That's great," I say, closing the door behind me to keep out unwanted visitors like Cicero. "But I don't want you guys to start worrying too much about the arena and all just yet. We won't get to the Capitol until tomorrow morning, and that'll be its own shock. I just wanted to make sure…are you two okay? I know this all isn't easy."

They're quiet for a moment before Aston speaks up: "Is it just you two? You and that Omaha guy?"

"One more," I say. "We have another victor named Selene. Don't let her get to you; she still frightens _me_ and I already had one Hunger Games with her."

Wren nervously laughs at my feeble attempt at a joke, but Aston's already thinking ahead: "Are they the two who're gonna train us? Since you won last year, and all…"

"Yeah," I say, impressed with his intuition. "Did Omaha tell you anything? Besides hello, I mean."

"He just introduced himself and stared out the window. He gave a couple one-word answers to questions. It was awkward."

I laugh. Aston's not bad for a 12 year-old I'm actively rooting against. Hopefully Wren won't have to worry about a knife in the back from him.

"He does that," I nod.

"Skye?" Wren speaks up quietly, glancing down at her feet dangling from the bed. "I just..."

She loses her train of thought in mid-sentence, nervously folding her hands and looking up at me with wide eyes: "Do we have a chance? I remember seeing the bigger kids when you were in the arena and I don't think I could…that I'd have…"

"Hey," I squat down to her level and grab one of her hands, trying to be strong for her sake. "You have a chance, okay? You both do."

I remember Selene telling Ames and I we had _no_ chance. I remember how it hurt – I remember how it stung, feeling like I was just another tribute to be slaughtered. I won't make the same stupid mistake with these two. Alecto, Triton, and other tributes I watched stand up for the 99th Hunger Games may be much larger and stronger than Wren and Aston, but I refuse to crown them as victors. Not yet. Not until the Games are over.

"It'll be tough," I go on, running my thumb along the back of Wren's hand. "There'll be times where you think you can't go on. The hardest thing either of you have beaten in District 9…well, the Games are much harder. You'll have to climb higher mountains and beat back tougher foes."

"But you don't give up. You can't give up, because no matter what's happening, giving up means the end. You've each got a heart inside of you, and that's more than some tributes can say. I don't know if either of you are great fighters or brilliant thinkers or anything, but none of that matters. I wasn't either of those. All that matters is that you keep pushing yourselves to continue. You'll always have a chance if you do, no matter how hard it is to see."

Wren sniffs away a tear as Aston gets up, motioning towards the door: "I'll give you two a bit of privacy."

"Thanks, Aston," I smile at him, opening the door for him to leave. "We're gonna have dinner in an hour, so if you want to freshen up, take some time to do so. Just let me know if you need anything."

He gives me a nod and closes the door, leaving me alone with Wren. The girl's holding back tears as she scoots up on the bed, allowing me space to sit down beside her.

"Are you sure you're okay, sweetie?" I hold on to Wren's hand as I step carefully with my words. "I don't want you to bottle up your feelings. I know hard this is."

She sniffs and stares out the window as the plains rush by: "Shrike cried a lot when she came in to see me. The Peacekeeper dragged my family away; I don't want that to be the last time I see them."

"They'll be watching you; cheering for you," I say, gripping her hand a little tighter. "But you don't have to forget them here before the Games, or even in the arena. Just remember them. Remember the happier times, and you can still see Shrike and your parents as you want to."

"Is that what you did?"

"No," I say truthfully. Omaha's wisdom came to me after the Games, after all. "I wish I'd learned to do so before the Games, but I learned to hold on to what really matters. I learned not to let go to the things I love."

_And that's what's held you up, Skye!_ an angry voice in my head interjects. _You just can't let anybody go. Imagine what'll happen if Wren dies? You'll NEVER let that go! Get a good look at her now._

I shake the voice off as Wren lays her head on my shoulder and says, "I wish this never happened. I wish I hadn't been picked; that there was no Reaping."

"We all do, Wren," I say. "We all do. But we can't decide that; all we can decide is how to push on when we're faced with the worst of times. All we can do is trust our hearts, ourselves, and the people close to us. When it comes to most things, that's all we need. That's enough to win the Hunger Games, no matter how small or scared you are."

After another hug and reassurance, I leave her to her privacy and walk out, shutting the door behind me and staring out the long window of the car's hall. I can tell these two kids all the advice and heartfelt words in my head, but do they even mean anything? Heart, courage, bravery – none of that would have saved me last year without luck, a bit of Capitol intervention, and the strength of my allies. I can tell Aston and Wren to not give up, but how can I tell them to be strong when I can't even be strong in the face of memories and fear?

How can I be truthful with these two when I'm not sure I even believe what I'm saying?


	11. Faces of the Games

_**A/N: This chapter's a bit of a "set-up" one, so action junkies…yah.**_

_** Charlie/Minerva: I'm glad you guys like Wren/Aston/Skye's mentoring ability! As for Triton Odair, we'll see plenty more of him...**_

_** AC: Should I be calling you "Annie" then? Ha. But yeah, Skye will have a big hand in mentoring - I won't restrict her to being Nero's puppet 24/7; that'd be no fun. Besides, I have more fun villains to include.  
**_

* * *

For a man who says he only wants to be loved, President Nero sure doesn't make it look so in the Capitol. Every time I come here, this place is darker and more menacing.

It's not just the people or the weight of the responsibility on my shoulders. Peacekeeper hovercraft fly low over the streets as Selene, Omaha, and I take a car through the heart of the Capitol, headed to the Control Center – the central nerve cluster of the Hunger Games, where we'll be meeting with the other mentors and the Gamesmakers to review protocol and the like. Dark clouds hang in the skies, and the dim yellow lights of the hovercraft shine coldly off of the Capitol's towers and skyscrapers.

Cool summer rain pelts the ground around us, obscuring my view of the mountains surrounding Panem's central city. The rain has brought out thousands of brightly-colored umbrellas in the streets as people gawk at our car with wide eyes, pointing and shouting. They know the Hunger Games are here…and they know _we_ are here. Wren and Aston will be in the Remake Center by now, being poked and prodded by stylists – but I'm being thrown right into the heart of this vain and bloodthirsty city that's eager to see a new crop of tributes die.

All the garish color in the streets can't hide the increased security here in the Capitol, however. Tall, armored men in gray suits stride around the wide avenues atop stilt-like robotic legs that suspend them twenty feet above the roads. They carry long rifles, their faces masked so they hardly even look human. I shiver when I look at them; even here in the Capitol the people aren't free.

"I hate those things," Selene mutters, following my eyes out the window of our car. "Just…_watching_ everyone and daring them to do something illegal. Wasn't like this when Snow was in charge."

"Why do they just patrol the streets?" I ask as one of the stilt-walkers scans a crowd of Capitol citizens before striding down a side street. "It's creepy."

"Peacekeepers aren't enough for the Capitol, huh?" Selene says, her voice hushed. "They're called Capitol Guardsmen. Internal security. You can have all the jewelry and fine dining and fancy clothes you want in the Capitol, but step out of line…and you're no different than any of us in the districts. Our new President's a little paranoid…so they say. But I didn't tell you that. Cicero thinks all this added security's great; the man can't even see what's going on here."

I fold my arms as I watch the rain-covered Capitol buildings pass by in the window. There really is no safe place in Panem; nowhere for anyone to find privacy or the smallest bit of freedom. Someone's always watching.

"And here we are…again," Omaha sighs next to us, pointing out the car's front window to a massive, columned, marble building looming up like a mountain. "The Hunger Games Control Center. I've lost too many days of my life here."

"Haven't we all," Selene grunts, kicking open the car door.

I'm awed by the massive building before me. Twenty marble columns support a giant triangular façade eighty feet above me. Frescoes and depictions of Panem's and the Capitol's founding decorate it, with intricately-carved heroes I can't name defeating barbarians, animals, and yes – even district rebels. A great granite staircase leads from the street to the giant two-sided bronze door in the front of the Control Center.

All around us, as Selene points out, is the Capitol Forum. Located adjacent to the Avenue of the Tributes where the Chariot Parade will be held tonight, the Forum's an open sprawl ringed by governmental and commercial buildings and littered with people and street vendors. Everything's sold here, apparently – from cars to food and drink and more. There's enough to eat in this square to satisfy the mouths of everyone in District 9 for a month. Thousands of Capitol citizens in brightly-colored apparel brave the rain to stroll about, idly chatting, purchasing, or just walking around in the festive air.

"Let's not get caught up in the scenery," Omaha tugs on my arm, pulling me towards the Control Center's steps. "You'll see enough of this place over the next few weeks."

A solitary, stooped figure loiters against one of the columns as we walk up the steps to the Control Center. He's dressed in a ragged shirt and wears an unkempt gray beard – and I've seen him before.

"Haymitch," Omaha nods to the older mentor from District 12 as we get closer. "Not going inside?"

"No point," Haymitch clutches a glass bottle of whiskey in one rough-skinned hand, stroking his worn face's forehead with the other. "They can come get me when they want me. I'm just _thrilled_ to be here."

"You, uh…" Selene points at his whiskey. "Up for sharing?"

Haymitch laughs and tosses her the bottle, my mentor joining him on the steps. Omaha pulls me away – no need to get caught up in the alcoholism of others. I feel bad for Haymitch: Every other district besides District 12 has won since he emerged as the victor of the 50th Games. Nearly a half-century of futility, of watching child after child die…it can't be easy.

I hope I can do better.

"You haven't met everyone yet," Omaha tells me as he rests a hand on the door, pausing before we go in. "Here's a tip: A lot of the others, particularly the older ones…aren't all there in the head. And stay away from District 2. They've had the same two victors here the last few years, and they…aren't a friendly couple."

"What d'you mean by 'not friendly?'" I ask.

"If there weren't rules about not fighting each other," Omaha explains. "I think they'd still be reliving the Hunger Games here in the Control Center. You'll know them when you see them. C'mon."

Omaha pushes open the doors to the Control Center and I'm met by a scene taken out of the history books from school.

Crystal glass covers the roof of the Control Center's foyer. A large, oval space covered in marble tile with walls decorated in bright frescoes greets me. A huge limestone statue at least forty feet tall stands in the center of the room. It's the former President, Snow, holding his hands out as twelve smaller heralds circle around and offer up gourds that spit water in a wheel-like fountain. Polished onyx benches rim the room, and hanging crystal chandeliers sparkle with tinted light colored in the reflection of sapphires and rubies.

It's beautiful. Even if this wasn't the heart of the Hunger Games, I'd be happy to spend all day here marveling at the wonder of its grandeur.

"Skye, look at you," a sing-song, seductive voice calls from behind me. "All grown up and one of us."

A gorgeous girl with silver hair and pale gray eyes waltzes up to me with a bounce in her step. Her eyebrows and eyes are highlighted by dark makeup; her hips rocking back and forth as she walks. She's dressed in a skin-tight white outfit that runs from her shoulders to mid-thigh, leaving little to the imagination - and why not; in District 1, looks are what matters.

I met her on the Victory Tour: She's Aura, District 1's winner of the 95th Games and only a few years older than me. She's no cruel and bloodthirsty volunteer…but she's also certainly not modest and humble. I don't know what to make of her, yet.

"Hi," I say quietly. "I…Omaha's just – "

"Need to borrow your trainee," Aura smiles a little too brightly at Omaha, grabbing my arm before I have the time to say anything more. "I'll take good care of her."

Omaha shrugs at me as Aura leads me away. _Talk about aggressive…_

"You can't meet anybody fun if you're spending all your time with old, frumpy people," Aura whispers in my ear with a playful grin. "Us young victors gotta stick together. I don't want to have to spend all my time with Fenrir."

"With who?" I ask, still wondering how Omaha counts as "old and frumpy."

Aura points a slender finger towards a beast of a man lurking near a bench. I'm tiny compared to his height and bulk, his pale-white skin flexing with muscle at the slightest movement. The man doesn't even wear a shirt, but his skin's more than intimidating enough on its own: It's covered in dark scar lines; hundreds of them that run from tiny ruts to long, jagged canyons, including a massive gorge that runs from his right shoulder all the way down to his left hip. With his gray, almost white eyes, hairless head and body, and jutting jaw, it's hard to tell he's even _human_.

"Fenrir," Aura repeats. "District 2. Ugh, I can't _stand_ working with him, but I have to since our tributes always pair up. It's a pain, and he doesn't even like _talking_. Blah."

I can see what she means: A Capitol attendant dressed in red passes by Fenrir and the victor lashes out with a sudden burst of violence. He smashes an open palm into the man's chest, sending him skittering backwards as he snarls in a voice so deep and garbled that I don't know what he's saying – or if it's even the same language the rest of us speak. I resolve _not_ to get on his bad side.

"Oh, but you need to get acquainted with Bacchus," Aura tugs on my arm as I stumble after her, blindly following District 1's vixen around the Control Center foyer. "Bacchus! Get over here. Meet Skye."

A blonde athletic man in his early twenties strolls over, his white-and-violet cloak trailing after him on the ground. He's no slouch in terms of physical attractiveness, and it's clear at once he's Aura's co-mentor for District 1. _Of course – only good-looking victors come from there_.

"Mm, you're right," Bacchus says in a slippery voice, giving me a sly smile and narrowing his silver eyes. "I _do _need to meet our latest victor. Skye…Skye, Skye…we should get to know each other better. I think we'd make a good pair."

He runs a hand along my shoulder and slowly raises his head, sending a chill along my spine. I involuntarily step back, bumping into Aura and trying to spot a friendlier face in the foyer. _Is everyone in District 1 like this?!_

"You better find someone new," Aura pushes Bacchus away with a playful shove. "You see that boy from District 4 during the Reapings? Finnick's son? I could eat him up. Part of me already hopes he wins so….well…"

"You bad girl," Bacchus laughs at her. "You'd have horrible fat babies with him."

"Who said anything about babies?"

Ugh. I can't take their lewd conversation any longer: "It was good to meet you, Bacchus, but I…I need to…"

"Oh, you'll be back," he laughs. "Don't be a stranger."

"Skye, we're s'posed to stick together!" Aura grumbles, but I'm not having it.

I'm not some stereotypical victor who sleeps around or resorts to alcohol or anything else these others do. I'm not a brutish, tough champion like Fenrir; I'm not a seductive Capitol toy like Aura; I'm (hopefully) not a broken winner like Haymitch. I just want to be me. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently so. A cruel-looking woman with flowing brown hair and clad in brown leather watches me as she stands next to Fenrir, only half-interested in her conversation with the beast-like victor. Her dark eyes are cold and menacing; her face bemused and arrogant, drawn with a tight-lipped smile. I feel a chill come over me when I make eye contact with her: Whoever she is, I don't want to get to know her.

"You waste your time speaking to those creatures, District 9. There is nothing to be learned from them."

I look up as a harsh, accented male voice addresses me. Thresh from District 11 stands nearby, his powerful arms crossed as he watches Aura and Bacchus with a pair of piercing dark eyes. After Fenrir, he's the toughest-looking victor in the room even in his early forties. I know from speaking to him during the Victory Tour stop in District 11 that he's anything but a typical victor. At least he's willing to speak to me without resorting to alcohol or thinly-veiled lust.

"What d'you mean 'those creatures?'" I ask skeptically.

"Those of District 1 hide behind their vanities," Thresh answers. "It is difficult to trust the words of those who wear such masks."

"I guess it's just how they learn in District 1," I shrug.

"No. It is what they choose," he counters bluntly. "That is not nature."

I can't tell if I annoy Thresh, or if I should be happy he's talking to me at all, considering his negative view of the wealthier districts such as 1. He _is_ from one of the poorest districts in Panem, after all – and after living under the watch towers and menacing perimeter fence of District 11 that I witnessed during my Victory Tour, watching District 1's tributes arrive well-fed and beautiful to the Games every year must be grating for him.

That thought gives me an idea. Omaha mentioned speaking to Haymitch and Thresh about possible alliances for Wren and Aston. District 9's not all that better-off than District 11, and his tributes didn't look like they could win on their own. I owe it to Wren to try and sway Thresh's opinion on teaming up.

"Um…how are your tributes this year?" I start off cautiously.

"They are children," Thresh says. "Why are you so interested?"

"I was just thinking," I go on. "The girl and boy from my district are nice, but I don't know what kind of chance they have against Districts 1, 2, and whatnot. Maybe…y'know…we could team up, or something…"

"I do not 'team up,' District 9," he shoots down my idea quickly. "Alliances of arms are for the children to decide."

He ends our conversation with that, crossing his arms once more and staring off towards the center of the room. Something about Thresh strikes me as sad. I'm betting he was once a powerful kid who did well in his own Games, but he embraces his loneliness and solitary nature in a way that no other victor does – not even Omaha.

He reminds me of Tethys, in a way. If she had won the Games instead of I, her refusal to play by the rules of other District 2 tributes and her isolated, combative streak would have made her a natural complement to Thresh.

I'm shaken out of my thoughts by the arrival of the Head Gamesmaker. He's no extraordinary man: Tacitus Galba has held the position for around a decade now, and while the Capitol seems to love his Games and he's certainly creative (I can attest to that…), he's not often seen in public. I can only remember a few times I've seen the gray-haired, disheveled man on prior Hunger Games broadcasts before I was Reaped.

He hasn't done his ordinary image any favor by wearing a plain blue jacket and wrinkled white shirt into the foyer, his gray hair messy and unkempt. Tacitus is a far cry from the stylists and escorts of the Games.

"Alright," he says announces in a hoarse tenor as Haymitch and Selene walk in, each clearly intoxicated. "Is everyone here?"

"Nope," Selene snorts as she leans on Haymitch for support. "I'm not. In the head."

"That's quite alright by me," Tacitus sighs, pocketing his hands and stepping up to a platform in the center of the foyer near Snow's statue. Even from his elevated position, he's still miniscule compared to the larger, tougher victors such as Fenrir and Thresh. "We have to go over a few new rules this year."

I step back from the other victors as several grumble. I guess that's not standard protocol.

"First," Tacitus opens. "Let's give a hearty welcome to our newest victor, Skye Holdrege from District 9. Skye, where are you…"

_Ah, great. More attention._ He picks me out from the other victors, pointing me out for everyone else to see. Twenty-four pairs of eyes swivel to fixate on me as I wave half-heartedly, taking a step back. I hardly receive a "hearty welcome": Fenrir snarls like a dog upon seeing me, while Bacchus still looks as if he's ready to abscond with me to a private room at any minute. _Great start, Skye._

"Moving on," Tacitus continues, looking like he wants to be anywhere but here. "Sponsorship caps have been raised on a per-day basis; I'll let you review those for yourselves later. Aura, you _cannot_ try to solicit the President for 'favors' in exchange for a sponsorship; he has made it clear that he will remain impartial."

The girl from District 1 waves him away as Bacchus laughs derisively. So Nero wants to be "impartial", yet he's intent on turning me into his propaganda instrument? Talk about a double standard.

"Also," Tacitus goes on. His monotone delivery and tired expression gives me the impression of a man who does _not_ like his job. "From the President: All mentors are required to stay in the Capitol until the Games are over this year, rather than leaving once your tributes have expired. The President has made it clear he wants victors available for media appearances and other occasions."

"_That's bullshit_," Selene snaps from the far side of the room.

"It's the _rules_, I just _read_ them," Tacitus sighs. "If anyone has any questions about this year's proceedings, you can ask me or any other Gamesmaker following tonight's Parade or at any later time. Until then, I have things to attend to."

"I have a question," Haymitch grunts. "I liked Seneca Crane a lot more; can you – "

"I'm leaving, I'm pouring myself a drink, and I'm not answering that, Haymitch," Tacitus throws up his hands. "I am finished. I am not answering that question again."

Haymitch snickers. I have a feeling he asks for a replacement Head Gamesmaker every year.

Tacitus departs out of a back door, leaving the other victors and I to mull about in the foyer. Omaha finds me before I'm accosted by someone new yet again, hurrying me towards the door.

"C'mon," he says. "No sense sticking around. Parade's tonight, and we need to get to work on sponsors."

"Already?" I ask, glancing around for Selene. "We just got here."

We're intercepted before Omaha has a chance to reply. The leather-clad woman watching me earlier steps between the door and us, her head down and her eyes locking on me like a target. I don't know who she is, but I can read the inscribed number "2" on her black armband. That tells me all I need to know about her: We won't be friends.

"Omaha," she says with a snake-like voice, taking a step closer and narrowing her eyes. "It's been a long time, hasn't it? A whole year…you must be proud of your efforts. And this must be your protégé, Skye…what an endearing young lady. How nice of you to join us."

Omaha steps in front of me to try and put a quick end to the confrontation: "We're not looking for trouble, Medea. You don't want anything to do with Skye."

"But I do," she says, pushing Omaha aside and stepping in close to me. "I do. I rather liked Tethys, did you know? She wasn't much of a talker, but so capable and strong…to watch her cheated out of a victory like that; it pains me. I hope you haven't come to expect that kind of luck from the Games, Skye."

"What are you talking about?" I growl. I'm not backing away from this woman, no matter what she says about me.

"Well, it's obvious," Medea replies, her smile tightening into a wicked grimace. "I can't let some backwater district beat my tributes two years in a row like you did. Winning because of a timely intervention from a beast? How uncivilized. I won't leave things up to chance this year. I'll finish your tributes off quickly in the Games; make you understand that this is no competition of luck, but of skill. You need to be taught your place in the Hunger Games; your _district's _place."

I ball my hands into fists as I spit back, "You're not going to kill my two kids. They're stronger than those…those _monsters_ who volunteered for your district. They're people with something to fight for still; not like you. Not like your tributes, who just want to kill. I still remember Tethys. I remember that dead look in her eyes; she didn't feel anything."

Medea chuckles, stepping back with a dark shine in her eyes: "What hubris to believe you can shield your ego from me forever. If it is feelings you value, then love your tributes now. These Games will be their grave. I will bury your innocence in this arena."


	12. The Lies That Bind

_**A/N: Hey guys, I have a poll up on my profile page – it's about what you want to see in future works, so vote if you like having a voice.**_

_**Thanks for the likes on the victor's meeting! Figured it was a good way to introduce some of the characters we'll get to know in the future. As for ballet with a fish…I don't know, I just eat those things. Love sushi.**_

* * *

I plant my hands on my hips, inspecting my look in a mirror of the 9th floor of the Training Center. I'll call this place home over the next few weeks, but there are no tributes here – not yet. The setting sun outside the bathroom window lets me know the Chariot Parade will begin soon, but here I am still figuring out of this white dress I wear is acceptable in the Capitol's eyes.

"Skye!" Selene bangs on the bathroom door. "Hurry the hell up. Omaha's already out there doing…whatever…for sponsorships, and you and I gotta join him."

I don't answer. I look over my hair one more time – straight and curled at the end, so unlike the usual me – and step out just as Selene is about to pound on the door again.

"Let's go," she grabs me by the arm, pulling me through the ornately-decorated floor and past the rooms and lounge I'll get to know all too well very soon.

"What's the plan?" I say, narrowly avoiding slamming my knee into a chrome leg of the dining room's table. We step onto the silver Training Center elevator as Selene pounds the button for the ground floor. "You never told me what we're supposed to do."

"Look," she says as the elevator descends sharply with a whir. "Capitol people want to see you all pretty and whatnot. I can use that; I'll take you around with some of the sponsors I visit with tonight in the stands during the Parade. I need you to smile, shake hands, that kind of thing. You don't even need to think; just look like you're having a good time and smile. A lot."

"Alright," I sigh, my shoulders slumping. I'm in for a long, tiring night – _Gee, even Selene's whoring me out now!_

As soon as the elevator doors open to the Capitol streets, however, I know I'm not going to be going with Selene.

A man in a black cloak stands before us, his back turned to the elevator and his body completely covered. Two Peacekeepers flank him, facing us and holding long rifles. I take a step back in fright as Selene pales: I've never seen my mentor frightened before, but when she realizes just _who_ the man in black is, the fear on her face is easily recognizable.

"Going somewhere, _Madame_?" the man in black turns, his voice all too familiar. "But of course. _Of course_. We all are; no time to sit and think. But if we do not think…do we ever go anywhere?"

It's the President. He turns, his yellow eyes burning under his dark hood as he faces Selene: "_Leave us_, creature."

She doesn't put up a fight, high-tailing it without even tossing a look my way. I'm on my own with this monster.

"You are indeed going somewhere," Nero lifts his hood, letting the orange sunset light reflect off his dangerous eyes. "But not where you were thinking. Come."

A black, sleek car sits nearby, its doors open and another Peacekeeper waiting inside. I follow Nero's outstretched hand and step into the leather-trimmed interior gingerly as I consider my fate. It's my first step of whatever the President has in store for me, I figure. Am I going to spend the whole night with him? _Blech_.

"Now," Nero slides in beside me, snapping his fingers at the Peacekeeper driver in the front to get us moving. "With the Reapings over, all of Panem turns in to this moment – their _first _chance to see the tributes together. Exciting, yes? Perhaps. But all eyes will be watching, and I don't need them watching _Corinth_ and that senior citizen _Claudius_. I, of course, will be atop my Presidential Manor as usual…but I still need those eyes watching _me_. But am I just me…or are there extensions of me?"

He turns his eyes from the window and looks down at me, running a cold hand along my bare leg. I shiver and close my eyes, looking away: I can't make eye contact with this disgusting man. He's using me in a way that sickens me to my core.

"So, you want me to…" I stumble over my words, scooting closer towards the window to put as much distance as I can between Nero and I. Capitol streetlights flicker on outside as the world blurs into a grotesque swirl of urban glamour and shadow. "To just…go on the camera?"

"So simple? How horrifying," Nero replies. "No. Well, yes. But no. _You_ are an honored guest tonight, _Skye_. Panem's lovable, beautiful victor, extolling the virtues of the Capitol and the amazing turn for the better her life has taken since winning the Hunger Games. What an experience. _What_ an experience. The Games have indeed made you a happier, better person, haven't they?"

The dangerous look in his eyes tells me the answer: "Y-yes."

"Of course," he smiles subtly. "After all, there are a million citizens who just need to hear the truth…how the Games set them free; _oh_, if only the right words were spoken to them! They simply need to know all the good things that come from this annual ceremony of love. _Truth_. The Capitol loves them, Skye. Make sure they know that."

_Good things…like dead kids?_ I think. It's harder to get more out of touch with the average person than Nero has become. Power corrupts, I suppose.

"Is there…anything specific you want from me?" I ask as the car slows to a stop.

"I'll let you imagine," Nero runs his finger over my collarbone, sending fresh shivers down my arm. "I believe you can imagine what happens if you say the wrong things, as well."

I swallow hard as a Peacekeeper forces me out of the car. Nero glances at me one last time, the deadly glint in his eyes speaking all the words I need to know. _Play your part, puppet. Wouldn't want anything to happen to your two little tributes, would you? You of all people know my power over the Games…over life and death._

The President's car speeds off, leaving me standing with a pair of Peacekeepers before a narrow, nondescript metal door on the side of a concrete building. My escorts grab me by the arms, pulling me inside and into a different world.

It's as if every human being in Panem is in here. Men and women dressed in gaudy colors bustle about, some holding brushes, others with cameras, still others with microphones and trays of food and more. Harsh bright lights shine down from the low-hanging ceiling. No one so much as blinks as the Peacekeepers pull me into this hive of activity; they're all too caught up in their work.

They have a good reason: This is the heart of the Chariot Parade's broadcast network.

"Aah-ha! The woman of the hour!" a loud, boisterous voice calls out as the Peacekeepers let go of me. "Just the person I wanted to see!"

Corinth Terrance emerges from the crowd of human activity like he's parting the sea. The Hunger Games host's dressed in an outrageous teal jacket and golden pants that contrast terribly with his jet-black hair and eyebrows. It's impossible to miss the man even in this ocean of fashion-conscious Capitol citizens: He's larger than life, even here.

"Skye, Skye, Skye," Corinth walks up briskly and grabs me by the shoulders like we're old friends. "I was told you'd be joining in this year, and I _couldn't_ be happier."

"Yeah…me too," I stutter, trying my best to smile. _Yikes_.

"Absolutely, _absolutely_," Corinth nods. "All dressed up I see; let me catch you up to speed…"

An hour later, I'm seated at a table atop an elevated platform with Corinth and Claudius Templesmith. We're out in the open air, looking over the Avenue of the Tributes from near the City Circle. Those two have been on the air for nearly a half-hour now, but they've kept me off until now. They've gone to a commercial break – typical fare for the Capitol according to Corinth; in District 9, this is when propaganda plays to the sound of patriotic music. _Hooray!_

"Now, don't be nervous," Corinth leans across the broadcast table as I take a seat on a stool under a set of hot lights. It's far too bright and loud out here, and even with the microphone clipped on to the top of my dress, I don't know how anyone will hear me.

It doesn't help that I've started to sweat. I wipe an arm across my brow, trying to remain composed even as my heart flips around in my chest. _Everyone gets to see you now, Skye. Everyone will watch you sell out your home and give praise to the Capitol – everyone will think you a Capitol sympathizer. It's bad enough I'm a victor in a poor district, but now here I am in front of the world. Pressure's on – and if I don't say these things, what happens to Aston and Wren? Damned if you do…_

"…and just follow along," Corinth finishes saying. I've completely tuned him out, so I hope he didn't say anything important. "The tributes will begin coming out in a few minutes, so simply stay with us as we go along."

Claudius nods solemnly as I straighten up on my stool.

"10 seconds," one of the Capitol workers behind the gaggle of cameras in front of me says.

I breathe in sharply, looking around at the swarming crowds below us. The Avenue of the Tributes is lined with thousands, maybe even a hundred thousand people like a giant field of brightly-colored wheat. The unbroken cobblestone avenue runs down the middle, awaiting the first chariot to begin its march from the blockish Remake Center at the far end of the avenue. Everything looks smaller from up here, but I can still remember the shock and awe I felt last year. From down on the road with thousands of cheering, chanting faces screaming my name…it was as if I'd been picked up from this world and set down somewhere else entirely.

"Five seconds," the cameraman announces. "Four…three…"

We're on. I put on my best smile, sit up, and begin my career as Nero's media puppet.

"And we're back folks – where us?" Corinth says with his trademark plastic smile. "And we've got a special treat this year: Let's welcome to the set Skye Holdrege, winner of last year's Hunger Games from District 9 – Skye, welcome."

_Breathe, breathe, breathe:_ "It's great to be here, Corinth. I'm delighted that I get to be a part of this tradition."

"Well, let's get our viewers up to speed," Corinth puts on a dashing grin and holds out his hand to me. "It's been a year since you took home the victory in the arena, Skye. We saw you six months ago in the Victory Tour, but it feels too long. How have things been?"

_Remember what Nero said_: "It's been fantastic. I never imagined as a little girl that I'd be able to see every district in Panem like I did during the Victory Tour; that everyone in District 9 would remember my name. Everyone back home's welcomed me with open arms, and they're just so happy to have a new victor after going what - 15 years? - without one. I've never seen the district come together like they have over the past year. I'm so proud it was me representing District 9, and I'm so happy to carry on the tradition of the victors."

I sped through those blatant lies way too fast, but Corinth adapts without a hitch: "Absolutely, and what a tradition it is. The pageantry, the glamour, the pride – you can _feel_ the excitement in the air like a river."

"From the ground it must be even better," Claudius throws in. "I can't even imagine the butterflies."

"Good thing we don't have to imagine," Corinth fires back. "We've got hands-on experience right here! Skye, tell us – what's it like down there when the doors open? When you're faced with thousands upon thousands of people just _so _happy to see you? What's going through your head?"

_Honestly? I wanted to get away from Ames_. I can't _actually_ say that, however, so I borrow some of the President's talking points: "It's…it's the greatest feeling in the world, Corinth. Just knowing all those people love you and are cheering for you to do your best, well – for the first look at the Capitol up close, it's so refreshing to see our warm welcome. It speaks to what kind of a great city this is."

"_Beautifully_ put," Corinth smacks the table for effect. I mentally sigh: _Got that one out of the way._

So it goes. For the next half-hour before the Remake Center's doors open, Corinth and Claudius go back and forth like the established duo they are, sending easy questions my way, taking my input, and tossing one-liners to the audience. In my defense, I'm not bad at this: My interviews for the Hunger Games and the Victory Tour have given me precious experience in front of the cameras that pays off now, and my single focus on pleasing Nero – rather than pleasing the people back home – helps me concentrate on what to say. I can't make everybody happy with what I'm doing, but I'll try to make the one man who matters happy.

"And here we go!" Corinth excitedly shouts as the doors on the Remake Center slowly open. A pounding roar erupts from the crowd, growing from a dull hum louder and louder into a wave of raucous noise. As the white horses of District 1's chariots come into view, the crowd screams with ecstasy.

"Lovely! Just lovely!" Corinth yells as Jasper and Lapis ride into the open, the two District 1 tributes dressed in long, flowing gowns sparkling with emeralds. "They do know how to dress 'em in District 1!"

"I think they fit right in here," I grab an opportunity to chime in. "The sponsors sure won't miss them."

"Absolutely, and that's a key point," Claudius throws in for analysis. "This is the first time the sponsors get a _real_ eye on the tributes, and that impact can't be overstated."

I realize my mistake immediately. The people back in District 1 are probably applauding me: Any Capitol citizens watching from the screens around the city just saw me endorse these two tributes. That wasn't a foul-up in the eyes of Nero, but it's not making Wren and Aston's life any easier.

_Focus, Skye. You're not doing this for Nero. Remember that._

Alecto and Deimos of District 2 shout something as their red horses trot out, eliciting shouts and cheers from the crowd nearest the Remake Center. I don't catch what they said, but I can imagine: With their matching suits of golden-and-scarlet armor and their skin painted a sparkling pearly white, they look like angelic warriors of the Capitol from on high.

I can only hope Magritte pulled off the job of his life with Wren and Aston.

Naturally, I'm disappointed. I never understand Magritte's bizarre sense of fashion anyway, but this year he's taken strange to a whole new level. Aston and Wren wear long cloaks of what looks like barley, but the design on their clothing leaves me baffled. Aston' s cloak sports wheat arranged on his torso in the shape of a mouth, while Wren's instead uses wheat to form a large, unblinking eye from her chest to her waist.

I make a mental note to bargain with Nero to get a new stylist – one who's _not_ some sort of egomaniacal artist trying to convey an obscure point – as Corinth chimes in with confusion: "Not…quite sure what to make of the outfits on District 9 this year…I see wheat, I suppose, for the grain district. Skye, maybe you can help our viewers out."

"Well…" I say. _What am I supposed to say?! _"Our stylist…Magritte…is a unique designer. My bet's on some kind of a….a hidden meaning. Still, c'mon District 9, let's show our pride and sponsor our two tributes this year! We've never had two victors in a row, and what a statement about how proud we are to be there that would be."

That probably guarantees me _zero_ sponsorships from District 9, but it sure makes Corinth excited: "Oh-hoa! A little home cooking here from District 9. You gotta love our latest victor, folks – she's the best of these Games wrapped up in one great package."

_If only you knew, Corinth_…I think.

I'm thankful when District 12's chariot makes its way down the Avenue of the Tributes and to the City Circle, where Nero gives his usual short speech. The actual Parade's much shorter from up here than it felt last year as an actual tribute; in no time, the chariots are riding into the Training Center and my duties are wrapped up for the evening.

_Thank goodness. Now to do this for the next few weeks…_

If nothing else, I've made a good impression with Corinth. Hopefully I've done the same with Nero. I make my way out of the production studio downstairs through a sea of people congratulating me on my first performance as a guest host. It's exhausting plodding through the crowd, but I take my time – maybe one's a rich sponsor.

As I near the door, however, a final man passes me by to offer congratulations. He's not dressed in garish colors like the other, but is clothed instead in a simple all-black suit from head to toe. He shows me his face for only a moment, but there's something about his eyes – his coal black, dark-as-midnight eyes, that strikes me as familiar.

His whisper in my ear tells me everything: "Congratulations…but your weak lies fooled no one tonight, Ms. Holdrege."


	13. Fear and Anger

_**A/N: Charlie got it! I focus a lot on eyes because it's how I identify characters when I'm trying to be vague; Nero, remember, has yellow eyes. I stress Scion's coal-black ones in comparison. I'm attempting to do better on throwing in little cues or asides that can foreshadow future events, so let's see if I can do better in that department.**_

_** Minerva: Ha, I can't forget – after all, this series has its arc all planned out, and I very much intend to get into it. **_

_**Also, this chapter will at first look like it's going to indecent places…it is not. Just want to clarify that beforehand.**_

* * *

I don't get a chance to find out _why_ Scion's here, _how_ he's here, or anything else. As soon as I spot him he's gone; disappearing like a puff of smoke in a sea of people. All I've learned about that man is that he does what he wants: No one gets in his way or stops him. He's tapped into the heart of Panem's populace; not just the Capitol and its favored districts like the President, but _all_ of the districts. When he says no one believes my debut with Corinth and Claudius, I'm inclined to believe him – regardless of what Nero thinks.

I still don't know what he _really_ wants with me.

Wren and Aston aren't older and jaded like me just yet, and they're still feeling the excitement and buzz of the Parade by the time I make my way back to the Training Center. Selene and Omaha have already heard about where I was, although they're not willing to talk about it: Once we put our two tributes to bed, we spend half the night strategizing, planning angles on gaining sponsorships, and cursing Magritte in absentia for his idiotic costumes.

I'm thrown into another public relations nightmare the next day as Wren and Aston head down into their first day of training. With training closed to the public's viewing, the Capitol people need something to ogle at, and I fill that void. As Selene and Omaha fan out to hunt down sponsorships, I'm left to linger like some sort of horrible spectacle.

I feel useless as a mentor.

Even the night doesn't bring me peace. I'm cut off again from my tributes as Nero calls me to the Presidential Mansion. After an entire day of running around according to his whims, can't I even get a breather?

A white-armored Peacekeeper leads me through the crimson- and gold-lined halls of the Mansion, these same ones I walked during the final night in the Capitol during the Victory Tour. There are no guests this time; no raucous feasts, no wild parties, no inebriated citizens. Only guards and workers pass us by, few and far between. I keep my head down as the Peacekeeper drags me along. Corinth and Claudius will be handling another live show tonight – is that what Nero wants of me?

"In," the Peacekeeper nods to a familiar door. It's the lounge: The same place Nero met with me last time; the same place he told me of my fate. I get the feeling something similar is about to happen.

I walk in nervously as the Peacekeeper shuts the door behind me with a resounding _thud._ The books, the glass-encased suits of armor, the paintings – they're all still here, just like they were six months ago.

"Don't get too comfortable, Skye," a serpentine voice snakes up behind me. "Your place is not with me tonight, but with one of mine."

I cringe at the smell of wine as Nero circles around me. The man's dressed in a scarlet robe that trails a good distance behind him, sparkled with flecks of gold that match the poisonous yellow of his eyes. He clutches a goblet of red wine in his left hand, his right clutching a swath of black fabric I can't make out.

"I said I have use for you," Nero takes a seat in one of the tall-backed leather chairs in the room, but he doesn't invite me to sit. "And I do. You did well last night, for your credit…it was enough to make _me _believe you were sincere. And if I can believe it, well…the people must have."

_Don't be so sure about that,_ I think, but all I can say is a quiet, "Thank you."

"Perhaps you shouldn't. You have another appearance scheduled tomorrow with the hosts on air, and I'll keep you busy with them," Nero smiles and takes a sip of the wine. "_Magnifique_. I do live vintage wines. They grow better with age, you see…not like victors. They grow worse with age; the worst of them are the oldest, completely useless in any accordance. The best are the youngest. Isn't it interesting…that you fit that category?"

"Well, I was…15…when I won," I stammer.

"Trivialities," Nero interrupts me. "But not so trivial, after all. You see, there are many here in the Capitol who like younger victors as well…and not just because of their enthusiasm and vigor in fighting for their tributes. They prefer a more…hands-on experience."

He tosses me the black cloth as my gut sinks. I unfurl the material, holding out a short, revealing black cocktail dress in front of me. My heart skips a beat: Now I know why Nero's called me "lovable" all these times; why he's been so interested in bending me to his will. I'm his centerpiece in subduing the districts, but he has a use for me here in the Capitol, as well.

I'm still his slave. His decisions are my will.

"You…you can't," I protest, my voice breaking. "This…this is…I'm just 16…"

"And old enough to understand human nature," Nero sips his wine again, his eyes never breaking from their piercing stare. "I said I have uses for you…and you're a compliant girl, aren't you? You know what's _best_ for your future."

I don't have a choice. I nod slowly, letting my eyes fall to my feet as a tear slips down my cheek. Why? Why this? I've dealt with losing friends, losing my mind, losing almost everything else – do I have to lose my dignity, as well? Is there anything left for me as a victor? _Anything_? Is there anything even left of that girl who existed before the Games?

Nero is unconcerned with my mere feelings: "I have a problem, Skye. My military commander, Scipio, finds himself…underutilized. Abandoned. Forlorn. You are my gift to him tonight; a generous offer by a generous President who doesn't forget those who have served him well. "

Scipio. I remember that name…I remember Nero saying it that first night I awoke after the Hunger Games ended. The man in black full-body armor…Scipio…

Nero wants to turn me over to him?

"W-what am I supposed to do?" I whisper, already fearing the answer.

The President smiles: "Exactly what you do for me, Skye. Anything you're told."

* * *

My stoicism in the face of my impending fate doesn't last long.

I break into sobs as a pair of Peacekeepers drive me through the Capitol. What will I do? _Anything you're told_. Given how much this short dress reveals, I can already imagine just where that's going to lead. I don't know who Scipio is, but he's part of the Capitol. To him, I'm surely just another victor: Another commodity, another girl to watch, use, and discard when someone younger and prettier comes along.

Hundreds of people pass by the windows of the car, but none of them know what I'm feeling inside. They have homes to go back to and lives to live. They're not thrown about like a pet, forced to obey without a say. That fate is reserved for me.

The car pulls up in front of a nondescript block of row houses as the Peacekeepers get out. One yanks the car door open, pulling me out by the arm as I wipe away tears from my face. I'd better look composed: The only thing worse than what I'm looking at tonight would be this man – Scipio – telling Nero that I was useless. I can't let my own anguish affect people counting on me, especially my tributes.

The Peacekeepers pull me up a flight of cobblestone steps before a gray, squarish house with a pair of limestone columns. A row of electric blue light hangs over the mahogany door, with a white dot in the middle that moves as if it's watching us.

Apparently it is: One of the Peacekeeper steps in front of the light, speaking like he's talking to whoever's inside: "Commander – a gift from the President. All yours until 0700 tomorrow morning."

I swallow nervously: I have to…to _satisfy_…this man through the entire night?!

The door opens slowly, but no one greets us. Soft yellow light and quiet, slow music wafts out from the warm interior of the house as one of the Peacekeepers pushes me forward: "Enter."

I look back at the street nervously before stepping inside, the door closing behind me. I'm met with the shock of normalcy: No elaborate, fancy Capitol abode is this. The interior's spartan: Wooden walls, similar to the Justice Hall back in District 9, line the entrance room I've entered, with only a pine coatrack and a small side table for furniture. Pleasant yellow lights shine down from the ceiling, bathing the home in a welcome glow.

"Come in," a deep voice calls out from further inside the home.

I take a cautious step forward, glancing around the entrance room's wall into a softly lit living room. A television screen that takes up an entire wall bathes a swirling rainbow of colors across the room, blending and blurring with the music. Blue couches and chairs circle a marble-lined table in the center of the room, while a gray-and-violet flag with a "C" in the middle – some sort of Capitol tribute, I figure – hangs on the far wall.

"Are you here for a specific reason?"

I jump as the voice calls to me again. A plain-looking man of average height and build stands on the other side of the living room, holding a glass of water in his hand and staring at me like I'm some unwanted intruder. He's the most average-looking man this side of Cicero I've seen in the Capitol, dressed in a plain gray shirt and pants with short, brown hair that looks out of place compared to the vibrantly colored hairdos I've gotten used to here in the heart of Panem.

"Are you…"

"Scipio Antonius, commander of the Panem military. Now why are you here?"

"I was…" I stammer, looking up at the man and down at my feet. "I was sent by…"

"Nero sent you for what?"

I let my shoulder slump and my arms hang by my side as I admit, "The President sent me to do anything you tell me to do."

Scipio sets his glass of water down on a side table, staring at me with a furrowed brow: "Anything I tell you to do?"

"Yes. Please, I just…the President told me to do this, and I don't want to upset him."

The man picks up his glass of water again, taking a sip while keeping his eyes trained on me: "You can start by leaving my home and leaving me in peace. I'm not interested in Nero's tokens."

My eyes bulge and I take a step back. No – no, I can't do that. As bad as this is, Scipio's rejection would make me look even worse – as if I'd offended him and failed the President's orders. No, I can't do that – there's no telling what Nero would do to Wren and Aston if I fail.

"No, no no," I say. "I'm supposed to – "

"Anything I want. I want to be left in peace."

"I just – "

"I don't care what Nero wants. I don't want anything to do with the victors of the Hunger Games or anything else involving that mindless event."

I take a slow breath, closing my eyes and struggling to calm myself. I didn't expect this: "Please, sir…I have two tributes I'm mentoring, and…"

"And you're afraid Nero will have them killed in the Games if you don't meet his expectations? Is that why you were with that man Corinth during the Parade?"

I nod slowly – _breathe, Skye_.

"Fine," Scipio rolls his eyes at last, looking more annoyed than anything by my arrival. "Have a seat."

My heart starts beating furiously again as I take a seat on one of the couches. What's he going to ask me to do now that he's accepted me? This man's military; they can't be any better than the Peacekeepers – who already won't hesitate to take advantage of girls like me back in District 9.

Scipio sits down across from me, setting his glass of water down and ending the music with a wave of his hand. The television screen's colors stop, halted in the middle of a swirling corkscrew of oranges and yellows that illuminate the room like a summer day. The warm lighting helps put me at ease, even as I fear what's coming next.

It's not what I expect: "I'm going to ask you a question, Skye. I know who you are. I know all about your district. But I don't know one thing…tell me; what do you know about District 9's Head Peacekeeper?"

"I don't…" I stammer. "I don't know…"

"Speak freely. I already knocked out the bugs the President planted in here."

_That's really reassuring_, I think. The Head Peacekeeper? Does this man know about Scion? All I can remember is the Head Peacekeeper's body…and the human mutt gnawing away on it like it was some sort of toy. Scion's voice reaches into my mind: _If it's titles you want, Ms. Holdrege, then go ahead and refer to me as your new Head Peacekeeper_.

"I thought…the last one died," I manage to spit out as Scipio watches me closely. "Back in the winter."

"Died," Scipio chuckles. "Died. Just like the Head Peacekeepers in District 6, District 8, and District 4. And just like all three of those districts, yours hasn't been replaced. Does that strike you as out of place?"

"I guess?"

"I would hope so. A third of all of Panem's districts have Peacekeepers running around like wild dogs, doing whatever they please. That's not normal, Skye. Tell me this, since you're on the ground level…what's happening in District 9?"

Why is he asking me all these questions – and how much should I say? His remark that three other districts also had Head Peacekeepers die has left me questioning how much Scion _really_ knows. The elusive man has kept me on my toes, popping in and out of my life just when I least expect it; is he also in those other districts? What is his goal with all of this?

"It's, um…it's summer back home; people are tending to the fields – "

"Skye, I'm not Nero," Scipio interrupts me suddenly, setting his glass down and crossing his arms. "I'm not going to kill you for what you do or do not say. You're here in my house, and if I'm stuck with you, I'm going to take the time to at least get a better grip on what's going on in the districts – particularly since the Peacekeepers have been anything but helpful about cluing me or my people in."

I look up, curious: "What do you mean?"

"The Peacekeepers and the military don't exactly get along," Scipio leans back on the couch. "They are the ones who operate in the districts, and if they don't want to let us in, they don't have to. Hence why I'm asking you from _your_ perspective – what is going on in District 9? Specifically, what are the Vox doing there?"

I inhale sharply at the mention of the group. I've forgotten all about the "gang" that runs about District 9 ever since the three of their members attacked Shrike and I, but if this man's bringing it up, it must be more wide-spread than I've thought: "I don't know much about them. They just paint slogans on buildings and stuff. I thought they were a gang."

"Slogans," Scipio muses. "Anything interesting?"

"I don't know – they just write 'hoarders' on shops and think of us victors as lackeys of the Capitol. Sorry, I – "

"And this makes you think they're a gang?"

"I suppose so."

"Hm," Scipio takes another sip of water. "Vox Liberi. Curious name for a gang. Perhaps it's because they're _not_ a gang. Now, it sounds like they're not up to speed yet in District 9, and that's a good thing – because what's gone on in some of the other districts isn't so simple."

"I'm sorry," I cut him off and raise my hand. "But…why are you telling me all this?"

"Well, if you're going to be Nero's pet," he muses. "You should probably know the real reason _why_ he's so interested in you; why he wants someone to appeal to the districts. Nero's fighting a public relations war, Skye. The Vox Liberi are a resistance movement in Districts 4, 6, 8, and now 9. All those districts without Head Peacekeepers? Pretty convenient for a group that's little more than a band of terrorists, and yet the Peacekeepers won't replace their district leaders. Of course, something in your eyes when I mentioned them tells me you know they're not just asking for extra food."

"I…might have run into a few of them in a bad part of District 9."

"They like to live in the bad parts. That's where the Vox finds their people – down on their luck, desperate, impoverished, starving, hoping against all hope for a way out. Give 'em a brick or a knife, tell them they're part of something, and they'll do anything for you. You see, Skye…I know what Panem breeds. I know what the Hunger Games and the Peacekeepers create. It's not love, like the President says. These things spark fear and anger, two emotions groups like the Vox feed on."

"But since neither the Hunger Games nor the Peacekeepers are ending any time soon, if Nero can't keep a lid on the resentment running through the veins of this country, something ugly's going to break out. And it's not just against the Capitol – it's against folks like you. People in the districts with a little bit of money or status or value are going to be the first ones taken down. So when I see you meeting with our illustrious host of the Hunger Games, Corinth Terrance, to go on air and talk to the people of Panem, make them love us all…I know you're wasting your time. Something tells me you already know that, however…and something tells me you're not a fan of these 'errands' Nero sends you on."

I swallow hard. First Scion told me that my "lies fooled no one," and now Scipio tells me I'm wasting my time on air with Corinth and Claudius. More and more I feel like Nero's living in some delusional land, pretending I'm something I'm clearly not in order to protect his fantasy of a peaceful, happy Panem. Yet even the people around him – even someone like Scipio – have come to understand that there's a violent and angry undercurrent running beneath Panem.

This is not going to end well – and I'm caught up in the middle of it.

And what of Scion? Scipio's revelation tells me that there's much more to this man than meets the eye. He killed off the Head Peacekeeper in my district, but did he kill the three others? And if he did…is he connected to the Vox somehow, guiding these…terrorists…into bolder acts against the Peacekeepers? For what reason? Scipio's words have left me with even more unanswered questions than ever before.

"I'm not a fan," I tell my host. "But I…I don't want to upset the President. He is…the President."

"Of what?" Scipio looks me right in the eye.

"Of Panem?"

"So impartial. Do you really believe that?" he asks me. "Or do you simply wish he'd leave you alone? You told me yourself: You're here because you don't want him to hurt your tributes. So are you really loyal to him, or are you loyal to your own?"

"I'm not a…a rebel, or anything."

"No, you're not. You're just a girl caught up over your head, aren't you?" he says. "But you wear your feelings on your sleeve. I can see what you're thinking: You already regret what you've done as a veteran of the Hunger Games. You regret what you have to do. You wish you could just go back to the person you were before, don't you? You're angry at what you're forced to do…and you fear what could happen if you fail in your obligations. Fear and anger. Soon enough, Skye, these predatory people might start making sense to you, too."


	14. Fracture

_**A/N: I'm probably going to disappoint some people as I accelerate through the "training" chapters, but they're not really…relevant…in context. Heh, particularly where our protagonist is going.  
**_

* * *

Training passes all too quickly and I get to spend precious few hours with Wren and Aston. Between Nero dragging me off to events at night and Selene and Omaha taking me along to round up sponsorships during the day, it's a miracle I even remember the tributes.

It's a good thing I'm kept busy: I have a feeling that I'd worry myself to death looking after my two kids. Neither Wren nor Aston masters any specific weapon and while both prove capable in activities and skills such as tying knots and starting fires, I know they'll have to find a way to fight if they want to win. I did; every victor does.

Of more concern is their inability to make friends. I keep myself up half the night on the second day of training after Wren tearfully admits that no other tribute wants to talk to her. From what she says, two camps are forming: Alecto's gathered Districts 1 and 2 together, along with District 4's girl, Cormorant. Unsurprisingly, Triton Odair's not playing by the rules: Wren tells me that Finnick's son has instead gone around to the most capable non-volunteers in training, looking to establish his own force to fight against Alecto's.

I can't tell if the boy's brilliant or a fool. Teaming up against volunteers worked for me...but that doesn't mean it'll work every time.

Of course, Triton's training score of an 11 won't hurt him in the eyes of sponsors. That's as much as Wren's five and Aston's six combined.

I pace around the ninth floor of the Training Center on the last night before the Games, one hand running through my hair nervously. I haven't had enough time to plan; haven't been able to strategize – I'm hardly even on the same page as Selene and Omaha. Raucous crowd noise and bright lights shine in through the floor-to-ceiling window, illuminating our somber floor with an orange glow. Selene pours herself another drink and slumps down onto a couch across from Omaha as I stare out the window, wondering what I'll be thinking – and feeling – in less than a day.

"Well," Selene holds the glass up against her forehead, crossing one leg over the other slumping forward onto her elbows. "This is the part where the fun begins."

"Speak for yourself," I mutter. _My_ "fun" has been going on for a while, thanks to the President.

"That's the only person I can speak for," she replies sarcastically. "Y'know, it's really a bummer that they're making us stay for the entire Games, rather than letting us go home as soon as our district's out. Those were better times. I'm not lookin' forward to slumming around the Capitol until this charade is over."

"What d'you mean?" I ask.

An uncomfortable silence descends over the room. Selene sighs and puts down her drink, glancing up at the ceiling awkwardly as Omaha stares off into the wall. Realization slowly sinks into my head: Neither of my mentors thinks Wren or Aston has a chance.

"You think they're going to die," I say slowly, turning around and staring at my fellow victors with accusing eyes. "You don't think they can win."

"Skye," Omaha tries to calm me down. "Of course we – "

"No," Selene cuts him off. "I don't think they can. You want some facts? A 12 year-old's never won the Games. 13 year-old kids have won twice – and those two allied with someone from either District 1 or 4 and turned on them to win. Wren? She doesn't have a friend or ally besides Aston. I don't think District 2's gonna welcome her with open arms, and if you think for a minute Finnick's son will – "

"Why don't we go down to the fourth floor right now and push Finnick and Annie to get Triton to accept her, then?"

"Are you brain-dead, Skye? You think those two are pulling for Wren? Or are they pulling for their son? They're not going to give half a hump what you think. So when I say that the odds aren't exactly in Wren and Aston's favor, that's why. Either of them winning would almost certainly be unprecedented, and when it comes to the Games…well, they're games of probabilities, not miracles."

I fold my arms and stick out my lower jaw, seething with anger at Selene. How can she be so…so _callous?_ So dismissive? Wren and Aston's _lives_ are in our hands, and she's just willing to throw them away like that? All because she doesn't like the odds?

"I can't believe what I'm hearing," I fume. After days - months - of keeping my cool and acting like an obedient little victor, I lose my temper and lash out. "This is pathetic. I can just imagine you last year – 'Skye doesn't have a chance. She's just a girl among all these other killers.' Omaha, were you like this too?"

"Look, don't – "

I don't give him a chance to finish: "This is why we didn't have any victors between when you two won and when I did. Nobody gave them a chance. Nobody believed in them."

"Because you've done such a great job mentoring so far?" Selene stands up, anger trickling across her face. "It's easy to stand on your pedestal and judge when all you have to do is show up in front of the television cameras and look cute. Maybe when you stop playing Capitol celebrity and start pulling _your_ weight, I'll listen to what you 'believe.' Right now, your beliefs matter about as much to me as the President's do."

"I think that's about all they've ever meant to you," I retort. "But fine. Next year if the Capitol stops pulling me around like a puppet, why don't you two stay home, and I'll actually put my faith behind our two tributes? Maybe that'll give them a chance for once."

I turn and stomp out of the room before she has a chance to reply. I'm done arguing with them. If this is how they treated _my_ chances last year – chances that were good enough to get me safely out of the arena (albeit with the Capitol's help) – why should any of our tributes ever feel confident and ready going into the Games? It's not as if Cicero and Magritte are good role models, either.

Omaha chides Selene as I turn down the hall: "Selene, if you keep arguing with her, you'll just make the situation worse. She's not wrong, you know. We need someone who cares about what the kids are feeling, and she's a lot better at that than I am. If you and she are going to be the future District 9 mentors, you have to get along."

"I don't care," my other mentor snaps at him. "Beliefs? Faith? Those kind of things get people killed, Omaha. If that's what she wants to put her bets on, she'll do no better as a mentor than either of us have done – except the pressure and guilt will tear her down far more than it's hurt us."

I lean against the wall in the darkened hall, pressing my fists together behind my back and staring up at the ceiling. What's gotten into us? Into me? I was terrified of the Games last year, but at least I kept myself together – mostly. Now Selene, Omaha, and I are fracturing like we're at war, and I feel like I can't do enough to keep my two kids alive. I couldn't keep my cool after the Reaping; I've barely handled Nero's constant interruptions, and now I can't even see eye-to-eye with the people I'm supposed to be working with. Is this how it's going to be for the rest of my life? Stressing, worrying, and fighting as I try my hardest to save my tributes?

At what point does the trial of saving another's life destroy my own?

A soft sigh from down the hall jolts me from my thoughts. I tiptoe towards the bedroom doors, listening in to Wren's room. A quiet sniffle and rustling bed sheets greet me – she's still awake.

"Wren, sweetie?" I say gently, my voice almost whisper. "Are you okay?"

I open the door and poke my head in after receiving no answer. Sheets and pillows are everywhere; it's like a bomb went off in the room. A table lamp lies on its side on the floor; water trickling out from the bathroom into the bedroom. Wren's curled up on the far side of her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest and her face buried in the arms of her loose-fitting pajamas.

"Hey," I step towards her slowly, bending down to her level and taking a seat beside her. "Hey, Wren – it's alright."

She shakes her head, grabbing her hair and pressing it into her face. The lilac dress she wore to the interviews with Corinth earlier tonight lies in tatters nearby.

"Not okay," she sniffs.

"It's alright," I repeat, placing an arm around her and pulling her against my shoulder. "I know it's not easy. I kinda did the same thing last year…sat in the shower with all my clothes on and refused to come out until Selene got me."

"She's right," Wren mumbles into her arm. "What she said. We don't really have a chance."

_Dammit Selene!_ I think, biting my lip angrily. _Sometimes you should just keep your opinions to yourself._

"No, no, sweetie," I say. "Don't listen to her. You'll be fine. You learned things during training, and I'll be watching you and doing whatever I can to help you in the arena. You'll be fine. You'll come out a victor; just like me. I'll even make Selene or Omaha come to the Capitol with me next year so you don't have to come back. Don't you worry."

"No," Wren shakes her head again. She doesn't believe my words of comfort, no matter how sincere I sound. "I haven't learned anything. I can't kill anybody. I don't even have anybody with me besides Aston. How am I supposed to win, Skye? What am I supposed to do?"

"You just do what feels right," I tell her, rubbing my hand over her shoulder. "I didn't know anything going into the Games either, Wren. But if someone like me can win, then you can, too. Believe in yourself. You're stronger than you know. Stronger than others know. Shrike knows it. I know it; and we and all of District 9 know you can do this. Don't cry, Wren. It's scary now, but it's going to be fine in the end."

I pick her off the floor as she slumps into my arms. She's light – too light; I should have had her eat more during training, should have…have done _something_ more than I did. I lay her in bed, shut off the water from the bathroom and salvage what sheets and blankets I can as I tuck her in.

"I'll see you in your dreams, Wren," I pat her hand and smile. "I won't be able to see you tomorrow – I have to go where all the mentors go – but I believe in you. I won't stop until I get you safely home."

"Skye?" she peeps up sleepily. "If…if something happens…"

"It won't, sweetie."

"If it does…don't let what happens to me hurt you or my sister. I don't want to hurt anybody."

"When you come home," I reply, my finger hovering over the light switch. "We'll talk about what can happen. I'll see you when all this is over, Wren."

I switch off the lights as she curls up in her blankets, letting my eyes linger on her for a moment too long. Fear creeps back into my gut as I watch her: Is she ready? Am _I_ ready? I can't get my disgust with Selene and Omaha out of my head. I fear they haven't done enough to prepare Wren for the horrors that surely await her in the arena.

Most of all, however, I fear _I_ haven't done enough.

I close the door behind me, leaning against the wall and exhaling hard. My fear twists, morphs, contorts into anger: Red, hot, roiling _anger_. Wren shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be facing death, shouldn't have to kill to survive. She shouldn't have to suffer through all of this, and _I_ shouldn't have to be worrying about whether or not I can keep her alive.

It's disgusting. It's sadistic. It's _wrong_.

This isn't like me. This mentoring business…this responsibility for others' lives; it's turning me into a girl I've never seen before. This girl isn't the Skye I used to know. This girl's one who will fight her battles – and maybe some battles that aren't hers. This girl would have horrified the old Skye…but I'm slowly realizing that the fight feels _good_. Shedding the helplessness, the powerlessness, the depression I've felt as I've been twisted and played like a marionette by Nero and the Capitol is all I have left.

"Skye?" Selene looks down the hall from back in the den, her face softening. "Look, I'm - "

I'm done listening to her. I pick up a vase from a table in the hall, hurling the ornament like a grenade at Selene's head. She sidesteps the vase easily, but the ornament explodes into a thousand pieces with a satisfying _bang!_ against the far wall.

"You're not sorry," I point my finger at her, snarling and taking a step forward. "Maybe if your prediction's right and she dies, _then_ you can be sorry. Then we'll see how much sorry means. Then we'll see just how little what you believe matters to me."

I wheel around and storm off to my room, losing myself in a hurricane of emotions. The fear and anger that Scipio told me about? Damn if they don't feel good.


	15. A Chill in the Air

_**A/N: Important note here…I'll give pretty long looks into the arena, but it'll always be when Skye's watching. Since the story follows her, whenever she's not in front of a screen or being clued in, the arena's out of sight. Similarly, we won't know any of the tributes' thoughts. I'm not big on switching POVs. **_

_**Also beware: Blood and nastiness. Surprise. The Games aren't very horrifying without the violence being real.**_

* * *

The early white alpine sun makes the Control Center look especially ominous today, casting long shadows from the columns outside. I'd better get used to it: This place will be my nerve center over the next week or two.

I can only hope Wren and Aston last that long.

Those two will be waking up soon back in the Training Center, shaking with jitters as Cicero leads them up to the hovercraft. I wish I could be there for them, but rules are rules: Victors are required to be here early for the start of the Games later today.

Have I told them everything I can? _Only take what's right in front of you_ _at the Cornucopia; find safety, water, food, and shelter in that order; don't immediately run from other tributes wanting to team up in the arena, but don't ally with anyone you don't trust. _Will those nuggets of wisdom be enough? It's too late now if they aren't.

Finnick Odair stands at the top of the Control Center steps as I make my way up. He scratches his unshaven chin, staring up at the clear skies with a solemn gaze.

"Are you alright?" I ask as I walk up.

"You never get used to this," he sighs, his eyes unfocused and blank. "Especially not like this. Ah, what's the point – c'mon; I'll take you inside."

Something about him – his honesty, maybe, or something else – puts me at ease as I follow him into the Control Center foyer. I can't explain it, but I feel better around some of the other victors, like Finnick or Thresh, than I do around Selene and Omaha. I don't know if it's familiarity getting to me, or realizations like the ones I had last night…but I can only hope either Aston or Wren finds some allies in the arena. I don't want to be stuck with only my district's contingent over the entirety of next week.

The foyer's empty as Finnick and I walk in. Only the fountain from around Snow's statue moves, casting glittering light around the hall in the morning sun. A cold chill sweeps over me despite the summer heat: This place _feels_ like death, as if some spirit in the foyer understands what will happen this morning.

Past the hall is the Control Hub itself. Here twelve large rooms surround a central cluster of computers, holograms, screens, and Gamesmakers all at work around a three-dimensional projection of the arena. Sky blue lights peer down from the high ceiling, giving the place an electronic glow.

"This is where we split," Finnick sighs. "The room with the '9' on it? That's yours. I'm off to do…what I do. I'll see you around, Skye."

"Wait, Finnick," I stop and turn around. "Just…good luck, okay?"

I can't stand Triton's arrogance and demeanor, but Finnick's exhausted stance and sad face makes me pity the man. He has to handle the sobering reality of his son's likely death while comforting Annie; there's no one here for him.

"Yeah, you too," he nods.

That's that. I shuffle off to the room for my district, sliding open the gray door and stepping into the place I'll call home for the Games.

Soft white lights run across the ceiling, just bright enough to illuminate the suite sufficiently. Three blue holographic terminals line one wall, with food dispensers like those I've seen around the Capitol lining the opposite one. A small alcove near the rear of the room provides several beds, with another leading into a bathroom.

_Home sweet home, indeed_.

The center of the room dominates the space, however. A circular monitor projects a three-dimensional holographic feed into the air, although it currently just displays static. Three tv screens arranged around the room show a live feed of the Games, showing replays of Corinth and Claudius's analysis of the interviews from last night.

"Took your time getting here," Omaha chides me from across the room. He loiters against a wall, his arms crossed as he stares into the holographic static.

I sigh, slumping into a chair and ignoring him. The last thing I need is _another_ fight, right when we need to cooperate. I don't have the energy this early in the morning to yell and shout. Not now.

"There's uh…something for you," Omaha says, moving on. "Came in this morning. A sponsorship; came with a message for you to open it. I thought I'd let you take a look yourself."

"For me?" I raise an eyebrow. "Why me?"

"I'm guessing the message that came with it will explain. Just run your finger along the bottom of any of those console screens by the wall to access them."

I shove myself off the chair, yawning and wiping sleep from my eyes as I walk over to the consoles. The screen's easy to manipulate, and I scroll through the computer's various options before coming to a sponsorship tab. I open it up: Someone's left a sponsorship for me, just as Omaha said…and it's worth a _lot_ of money. Who would do that for me?

As soon as I read the message that's tied to the gift, however, I know it's no benevolent spirit behind this:

_You just can't make up your mind, can you, Miss Holdrege? Angel, hellion, pure spirit, angry demon – I will rue the day you decide upon what you are. I'll be waiting outside once your "bloodbath" is over._

Only one person calls me "Miss Holdrege" – and he's got one mysterious agenda at work. Scion. Why would he sponsor _me_ after taking so much time to antagonize me? Only one thing makes sense: He wants to talk, and this is bait to keep me coming back to him.

_Well, it's working_, I think. _Anything to keep Wren alive_.

"Anything interesting?" Omaha watches me with careful eyes from across the room.

"No," I lie, quickly closing the message and adding the sponsorship to our pool. "Just from someone I met earlier. Nothing special."

"Hm," he grunts, his expression showing that he doesn't believe me. "Well, if you can keep it up, every sponsorship bodes well for us. From what I hear, the Odair clan has made quick work of sweeping through the Capitol's wallets."

"Then why'd Finnick look so sad this morning? I ran into him as I was coming in, and he looked like he was awaiting death."

"It's hard to lose yourself in happiness when you're surrounded by darkness, Skye. Even if the entire Capitol sponsored District 4, that wouldn't guarantee Finnick and Annie that their son would come home alive. No, it's up to him now – just like it's up to Aston and Wren to come back to us. We can only do so much."

I fall back into a chair, rubbing a hand in my eye: "Where's Selene?"

"Talking with Haymitch in District 12's suite. We have a few hours until launch – in the meantime, let me get you up to speed on the arena. Those tributes are in for a tough one this year."

* * *

Three hours later, Selene, Cicero, Omaha, and I watch the screens in our suite as Corinth and Claudius eagerly await the beginning of the Games. I huddle up on a chair, pulling my knees close as Selene and Cicero trade barbs. Their banter annoys me: Our two tributes could be dead in mere _minutes_, and they're more interested in verbally attacking each other?

"Skye," Omaha sits nearby, his chin resting on his fist. "Don't beat yourself up. There isn't much we can do now until the bloodbath's over."

"I hate just being so…so _helpless_," I mutter into my knees. "I don't like not being able to do anything."

"That's how it is every year. But that isn't for us to decide upon – all we can do is worry about what we _can_ do."

"Someone should change that," I grumble. He's right: There's little I can change now. It's up to Wren and Aston to make something happen.

On the screens, Corinth shouts in excitement as holes open up in the arena ground. 24 tributes rise into the arena, looking about in shock at their environment – the last place 23 of them will ever see.

Wren shivers as she rises into the arena, grabbing her arms to ward off the cold. The golden jacket and sweater she's wearing aren't enough to keep out the chilly, dusty air. Blowing sand rips at her face, the blustering wind throwing up dust and dirt into her eyes.

She looks around in wonder and fear at her surroundings. A cold, barren desert extends off into the distance, the flat, dry plain falling off into the horizon on three sides. Behind her, a high, rising expanse of mountains stretch into the pale blue sky, rocky and foreboding. Everything's gray and brown in the desert; there's no color, no creatures, no _life_.

A hissing _bang_ makes her jump. A red flare shoots from the shining golden horn in front of her, rocketing off into the sky as Claudius Templesmith greets the tributes.

"_Welcome, tributes, audience, Panem,_" Claudius announces, his voice carrying far and wide in the dry desert. "_Welcome to the 99__th__ Hunger Games. Let the countdown begin_."

An electronic clock flashes up in the sky, showing 00:60 in bright yellow digits. Wren inhales sharply, looking around frantically to get a grip on what's coming

To her left, District 5's brown-haired Phoebe stoops down into a runner's stance. The girl scored a nine in training – she's no slouch, despite being from a less-heralded district. Phoebe glances over to Wren's left, where flashy, muscular Triton Odair gets ready. Triton holds up three fingers to her, pointing back at the mountain and forward at a pair of spears on a box twenty feet in from the tributes. Those two have figured out something – and there's no way Triton's only counting on one ally. No doubt he has more around the Cornucopia.

Across the Cornucopia from Wren, District 2's Alecto hunches down like a lurking animal. She narrows her eyes, glancing to her left and right. Aston's on one side, looking terrified as he glances at the fearsome girl from District 2. On the other, District 7's Ash makes an imposing figure, his dark skin shining in the cold desert sun. He's one of the few who looks capable enough to take on Alecto and her pack of volunteers.

Wren looks around, struggling to stay calm. A shiny blanket sits rolled up on the ground five feet in front of her, a package of dried food next to it. Five feet further in lies a bottle of water attached to a belt hook.

_Get that, Wren_, I think as I tense up in my seat. _Get the water. This place is bone-dry_.

A multitude of weapons lie scattered about the Cornucopia. The two spears Triton and Phoebe have their eyes on are the closest to Wren, but the golden horn offers all sorts of destructive devices. A spiked flail catches my eye, along with a scimitar like the one Crystal wielded last year. Swords, knives, axes, and flanged maces hang from the Cornucopia's walls – however, there are no ranged weapons around anywhere. No bows, no crossbows, no blowguns.

Either no one did well with those during training…or someone did _too_ well with them.

The clock ticks down as Wren sets her eyes on the blanket and water. _5…4…3…2…1…_

"Here we go," Omaha sighs next to me.

_Bang!_ A green flare fires skyward as Ash and Triton leap off their pads first. The boy from District 7 unexpectedly dives right at Alecto, driving a fist into her face before she has a chance to react. The girl from District 2 recovers quickly, dodging a follow-up blow and circling about on all fours. Ash is gone in that split-second, hurtling in towards the Cornucopia faster than any other tribute.

_Oh no!_ Wren freezes, caught up in the excitement and fear of what's going on around her. Her eyes bulge with fright, her mouth ajar as she glances about in panic.

The volunteers move in towards the Cornucopia, but Ash is there first. The muscular boy grabs a throwing tomahawk, eying Cormorant from District 4. He pulls his arm up in a flash, releasing the tomahawk in a blur. Cormorant doesn't even have time to blink before the axe head slams into the middle of her chest, sending up a blast of blood. The girl stumbles forward onto her knees, coughing up blood as she stares at the ground in shock.

_One volunteer down already,_ I think, amazed. _Don't screw with that kid._

"Ash!" Triton shouts from across the Cornucopia. Finnick's son has a spear in his hand, warding off the boy from District 8 with the sharp tip. "Back! Let's go!"

The boy from District 7 nods, grabbing a pair of tomahawks and sprinting away after Phoebe and Triton. _Of course – get the best non-volunteers_. Triton picked his allies wisely.

Ash dodges a thrown knife from the District 8 boy, rolling and striking at his knees with his tomahawks. The boy cries out and goes down, whipping another knife around wildly. Triton hurls a rock to keep him occupied as his three-tribute alliance gathers, the trio sprinting off towards the mountains and leaving the other tributes to battle.

Wren finally gathers herself, jumping at the water and snatching the blanket. District 10's boy notices her: He's already armed with a sword, and Wren's hardly a tough rival. I can't watch. I shut my eyes tight, jamming my face into my knees and hoping beyond hope that she escapes.

"_Hrah!"_

Alecto leaps out of nowhere, slamming into the boy like a bull and driving him to the ground. He swings wildly with his sword, missing the volunteer by a mile. She's a far better fighter: With one quick motion, Alecto knocks his sword away with one arm while driving her other hand into his neck. She digs through skin and tendon, spraying blood all over the desert turf as she rips his windpipe out. The boy gasps and chokes as his life comes to a quick end.

Wren falls on her back, horrified. She scampers on her hands and feet away, her eyes widening and watching the boy from 10 flop around on the desert. The boy's death is a terrible thing: He heaves and coughs, leaving a blood halo around his body as he claws at the ground.

Wren looks up in fright at Alecto, but the girl from 2's interested in closer quarry. She dives as the girl from 10 rushes her, intent on avenging her district partner. She's no match for Alecto, however: The volunteer rolls into the girl's legs, taking her down as she bounds to her feet. Alecto snatches the girl by her hair, yanking back her head and driving her foot into her neck. The girl from 10's spine snaps with a sickening _scrunch_, her hands and legs jittering in shock for a moment before she goes still.

Wren takes off, grabbing her blanket and water and sprinting towards the mountains. She looks back in terror, her blonde hair whipping in her face. In her flight, she's left the dried food behind – _I hope there's food up in the mountains…otherwise, this could be a long, painful wait_.

_At least she got away, _I remind myself. That's one. Where's Aston?

I can't find our boy as the action winds down at the Cornucopia. A wide shot shows tributes scampering in all directions, fleeing desperately from the four volunteers from Districts 1 and 2 cleaning up their last victims. A plethora of weapons and supplies remain: Assuming Alecto's not interested in destroying the Cornucopia like Tethys was, she'll be able to survive for weeks on all that.

Eleven bodies lie twitching or still in the cold dust. One of them's a small boy that I can't identify…but something about him looks familiar…

District 2's boy, Deimos, strolls up to Alecto with the spiked flail in his hand. The weapon's bloody: He already took out one tribute with it, and it wouldn't be a surprise if he kills more. His long black hair's stained with white sinew, his mouth curled up in a cruel sneer.

"That's all of them," he says, his voice rumbling as the two from District 1 pick over the supplies. "Eleven in all."

Alecto crosses her arms and stares back at the corpses, her eyes flicking over the dead: "None of them matter. What a waste."

"Cormorant?"

"Useless. Pitiful. She had no purpose if she couldn't survive the bloodbath."

Deimos looks back at Jasper and Lapis in the mouth of the Cornucopia: "Those two are digging for supplies. What's our next plan?"

"Plan?" Alecto stares at him out of the corner of her eye. "Gather the bodies. Find a match. Pile them up; then burn them. Don't harm any of our supplies. I don't want any of these bodies going home recognizable."

"Burn them? Isn't that a – "

"Burn. Them."

He holds up his hands, retreating and moving towards the twitching body of a small boy.

"Hey," Deimos announces. "This one's still alive."

"Show me," Alecto replies.

Deimos drags him over, flipping the boy on his back for her. I gasp involuntarily when I see who it is.

Aston grimaces in pain and agony, a knife buried up to its hilt in his stomach. Blood and clear fluid run out of the wound, leaving a trail behind him where he tried to crawl away. His face contorts as he clenches his jaw. Aston makes a small noise, a gargle that squeaks out of the back of his throat: He knows he doesn't have long to live.

I can't watch this. I _can't_. I hide my face in my arms, turning away from the screen as tears run down my cheeks. _No, no, no…_I may have been pulling for Wren all this time, knowing Aston would have to die for her to survive…but that doesn't make his death any easier. It makes _this_ no easier.

I can't be there for him. I can't do _anything_ to ease his passing.

"Should I kill him?" I hear Deimos ask.

"Gather the bodies," Alecto repeats. "And burn them. Toss him with the others. If he's not dead by that time, toss him in anyway."


	16. Revelations

I can't watch what happens to Aston. I can't watch him suffer; I know I haven't pulled my weight in training the boy, but this is too much.

Omaha and Selene let me go. Wren's gotten away from the Cornucopia, and the Games will settle down as the groups and tributes scatter. Once again, I'm leaving my two fellow mentors to plan and strategize while I go blow off steam. What's wrong with me? I yell at them for not supporting Wren, yet I do the same thing with my actions.

I throw open the door to the foyer, storming past Snow's fountain and walking out into the morning sunlight. Giant screens in the Capitol Forum show the progress of the Games as Corinth and Claudius talk about the bloodbath. Thousands of citizens watch and talk, eager to see more blood. I'm disgusted by them; they're the ones who ultimately killed Aston. They're the ones who have Wren running for her life. They're the ones who watch and cheer on this contest of death.

They're _inhuman_.

I sigh and lean against a column in front of the Control Center. How do all these other victors do it? How do they come back here year after year and place their confidence in their tributes, knowing the overwhelming likelihood that the kids will die? How do they stay sane?

_Many don't_, a voice in my head reminds me. _Do you want to turn to drugs too? Shell out a few credits and you can buy as many as you want in the Forum here. _

No. No, I have to do better. I can't fail – I can't fail Wren, can't fail District 9, can't fail _myself_.

"Disturbing, isn't it, Miss Holdrege?" a slow, measured voice speaks behind me. "This menagerie of excess and waste. The stench of this place infests every nook and cranny of this foul city. Disgusting."

Scion walks past me, dressed in a white suit and dark gray pants, his hands clasped behind his back: "Look at them. Ogling over fates they cannot even comprehend. So absorbed in their pathetic lives…if this is the zenith of humankind, then we watch as the parasite kills its host."

"You," I whisper, backing up against a column. "You sponsored me. Why? Why help me when all you've done so far is hurt me?"

"Hurt you? Why, I have done no such thing," Scion turns his head and looks at me as if he's aghast at my accusation. "I've hurt many people, yes, but not _you_. Not yet."

"You've followed me, you've sent a mutt after me –"

"Isn't it funny," Scion turns and gazes at the Presidential Mansion, his eyes narrowing into slits. "When I first noticed you a year ago, I thought you could be useful for my goals. I thought I could turn you into something. Imagine my surprise – my delight – when Nero did my work for me."

"Your work? Does your work involve stalking me after the Chariot Parade? I don't even know who you are – _what_ you are!"

"Quite. Shall we answer that question?"

I pause: "What?"

"Let's take a walk, you and I," he replies, holding out a hand. From his smirk to the shine in his black eyes, I get the feeling I don't have a choice in this matter.

I follow Scion down the steps of the Control Center and into the Forum. Dozens of Capitol denizens push past us, caught up in gossip about the bloodbath and daily life. Scion keeps a firm grip on my wrist, pulling me through the crowds. On one side, vendors of every time compete to shout over each other, offering up every product and service in existence. Food, vehicles, massages, you name it: If it can be bought, someone's selling it here. I'm tempted to reach out and splurge on the delightful edibles, but Scion hustles me along. The occasional passerby recognizes me, shouting for an autograph or picture - or even company.

"Despicable," Scion sneers as we pass by the tenth old man to smile my way. "No control over the temptations of the flesh, these ones."

A well-dressed man offers out a hand to me from his business stall: "Ah, young miss, young sir – I can see it in your step! Tired, worn-out, over work? Can't find the hours in every day to relax, have a drink, or even watch the Hunger Games as all good Capitol men and women do? _You_ need an Avox! We've got strong men, delicate women, _every_ size and shape you need to keep your home in order and free your life for the joys we indulge in! Don't let prices stop you – we've got Avoxes for the cost-sensitive citizen too! _Every_ home needs an Avox – don't fall behind your friends and family!"

I glance over at the man's stall. Up on a platform, a man and two women dressed in red stare at the ground, their hands and feet bound in chains. The man's a tough sort, but whatever the vendor's done to him has turned his face into the mirror of despair itself. The two women, each with soft orange hair that flows down their backs, struggle to compose themselves as the audience bids on them.

"40!" an old man in a green shirt calls out. "40 for the girl on the left!"

"40! I have 40 from the man in green!"

"50!"

"55!"

"I have 55, 55 – will anyone top that price? You sir, you in the white – you _need_ an Avox sir; how about 60? Can I get 60?"

Some devil inside Scion rears its head. He stares down the vendor with a dangerous, dark gaze, his eyes turning into storms as he snarls, "Perhaps when I purchase you and feed you to my children, watching as they devour you alive…then, _then_ you will win a coin from me for your 'wares'."

Scion pulls me along as the audience stares. I look down at my feet: _What is this man getting me into_?

"The slave trade," Scion spits as we move along. "Only the human species is so foul as to imprison their own in a downward spiral of misery - for _life._ In the natural world, we observe those species that kill one another. Death is a mercy reserved not for slaves. If they all awoke and killed their masters, they would do this world a favor."

"Back there," I say, glancing over my shoulder. "You said 'my children.' You can't have kids. No one even seems to know who you are. Who would have children with _you_?"

"I _do_ bring out the best in you, Miss Holdrege," Scion smiles wryly. "But it only takes two to have children in your clouded view of the world. You will understand when we arrive at our destination."

"Where _are_ you taking me?"

"How many times have I instructed you to practice patience?"

I stop talking and follow Scion along, past the Forum and down a side street. He leads me to an open garage, where a black car awaits. It's no long, glittering vehicle like the ones the Capitol ushers victors and other dignitaries around in. This thing's old: It's angular and bulky, its windows clear and grimy.

"In," Scion holds a door open for me.

I step inside the vehicle gingerly, sitting down on a black fabric cushion. Scion steps in beside me, hitting a button to start the car and sitting back as the vehicle drives itself out of the garage and onto the thoroughfare.

"Where we are going is outside of the city limits," he says as he stares off into the distance. "You'll be back before you're needed. For now, you need to see something else."

"What's that?"

"_Patience_."

I cross my arms, staring out the window as buildings and people rush past. What am I getting myself into? It's a fair bet to assume no other victor runs around on behalf of Nero and bizarre, mysterious Scion. They're caught up in the Games, trying their best to keep their tributes alive; meanwhile, I go off on wild rides into the wilderness.

Scion. What does he _really_ want from me? I've asked myself the question so many times, yet I still don't have an answer. His riddles, his careful words, his well-timed appearances – all of them speak of some secret he's hiding.

"What do you know about the Vox?" I ask abruptly.

"More than you, I assume."

"That's why I asked."

"The _Vox Liberi_," Scion crosses his arms and looks wistfully out the front window as we drive by the walls of the city. "_Voice of the free_. How funny it is that they're not fighting for freedom…but revenge. Rage. Pent-up hatred. Ultimately, they're fighting only for destruction. It is the way all quarrels end."

"I was told they're terrorists."

"By Scipio? Of course _he_ would call them that; he, the believer in _law and justice_. Trivial concerns."

"Then what – or who – are the Vox? If they're not terrorists, or rebels…than what? And are they in District 9?"

"Of _course_ they're in District 9," Scion scoffs. Our car veers to the right along a narrow road, heading up into the mountains surrounding the Capitol. "The Vox are in _every_ district. And what are they? They are a confederacy of disgruntled people who resent the ruling class and are willing to use arms – and violence – to gain revenge. They are not interested in implementing new law or a new government; they are not interested in fairness, equality, or brotherhood. They are interested in one thing: Shedding the blood of their enemy, the Capitol – and all who represent it."

Scion turns to me, his face dark: "How funny, then, that the districts of Panem have watched _you_ represent the Capitol over this past week, your face shining like a beacon alongside Corinth Terrance and Claudius Templesmith. Fascinating."

I swallow hard, staring at him for a long moment. Scion's connected to them somehow. Between his knowledge of the movement and his hateful words towards the Capitol, he's in with them. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but Scion's ties to the Vox are deeper than I previously thought. Yet he mentioned that he wanted to use me – how? Clearly I've become something of a symbol to rally against – _thanks, Nero_ – because I've been on the Hunger Games broadcast enough times over the past week.

I know what I'd call any other victor from a poor district who suddenly sang the praises of the Capitol: _Traitor. Betrayer. Turncoat_. To the Vox, I am all of those things. Yet how can the Capitol simply ignore their rise?

"They won't last," I say. "They'll get stamped out like the rebels in the Dark Days."

"If I'd have asked Miss Holdrege a little over a year ago what she thought of the Capitol…I wager she would have hated them," Scion muses. "Now, she hopes they'll kill off the very people who will destroy this foul order. Does she believe in the Capitol to safeguard her new-found wealth? Her security? Or has her mind been warped by the serpentine speech of the good President? I wonder."

"I don't know what your game is," I say. "I don't know if you're in league with these people, or what. But I don't like Nero either. I just want to be left alone. These Vox…these _terrorists_…they're not any better than the President. If they want blood, they're no better than the Hunger Games."

"Amusing," Scion smiles. "Your boyfriend doesn't feel the same way. Imagine how he feels watching you sing, 'All hail the Capitol'."

I inhale sharply, my eyes widening. _No_. The rocky mountains around me blend into a brown blur as I grip my seat, trying to stay in control as my heart pounds.

"What did you do?" I ask. "What did you do to Reed?"

"Me?" Scion draws back as if I've hurt him. "Why…I was right here! I did nothing. It shocks me that you're surprised what 17 years of poverty can do to a man's mind."

"Not Reed. No."

"Yes, indeed. Did you think he would sit idly by as the spirit of vengeance threads its way through District 9? No. And might I add…your little boyfriend has _not_ been pleased by the way you've presented yourself on the screen. Your allegiance to Nero has been a lightning rod among the Vox."

"How would you know," I say, trying to fend off Scion's words. "You wouldn't. You've been here. You were here after the Chariot Parade; you wouldn't know what's going in District 9."

"You would be surprised by what I know. But never mind that: We are here."

I look up, realizing that I've ignored the changing scenery outside during the drive. A tall, cylindrical, black tower at least three hundred meters tall stands before the car. It spirals up into a pair of forked points at the top, with numerous secondary turrets jutting out from it. A tall wall we passed through sports dozens of gun turrets patrolling the exterior. Bolts of lightning jump up the black walls of the tower, arcing up towards the two points that shoot electricity in between their prongs.

It's a terrifying sight. I wonder why we can't see this thing from the Capitol. Something tells me it's not _meant_ to be seen.

"Home sweet home," Scion sighs as I step out of the car. "Follow me – let's step inside, shall we? We won't be bothering anyone."

"What is this place?" I say, looking up at the top of the tower in awe. This thing's massive – much larger than it looks at first sight.

"It's change…necessary change. Follow me, Miss Holdrege."

Scion grabs my hand and pulls me along. I stumble atop the loose, scrabbly rock of the inner courtyard, gazing around in wonder. This place…we're not far from the Capitol, but this tower might as well be light years away. Gone are the fancy facades, the gleaming skyscrapers, the colorful clothes. In its place is cold, black efficiency, sharp, pointed malevolence, and the chilling gaze of automated gun mounts. Even the Peacekeepers aren't this intimidating.

Where has Scion taken me? What does he want me to see?

My host pulls open a door at the base of the tower, holding it ajar for me to enter. I step inside carefully, not knowing what to expect.

"Welcome to the world as I see it," Scion says, spreading his arms wide. "Welcome to the future."

Blue light blinds me as I shield my eyes from the glare. Clear tubes spiral up a hundred meters into the air, suspended by floating metal hubs. Inside the tubes, small, brown figures wriggle and writhe, like babies still stuck in the womb. Mechanical drones fly about the massive space before me, tending to the tubes with all the care of a new mother.

The tower doesn't just go up, however – it also goes _down, _deep down into the mountain. A giant cylinder covered in shifting white light burrows hundreds of meters into the earth. A spiral staircase, wide enough to fit at least ten men, curls downward beyond what I can see.

People walk down the staircase into the white light of the deep underground. As I squint, however, I can see that they're _not_ people.

They're mutts. _Human_ mutts. Mutts – some pale and shiny like the one that attacked me in the arena; others brown, black, and tan, ranging in forms from near-human to otherworldly.

"This is my home," Scion comments. "This is where I was born. The Capitol had long sought to create its own human being…one free from the violent birth of nature. A man that was not a man - a sentient being born not from the tools of nature, but the machinations of civilization. As man challenged the universe, it created me. I was to carry out the Capitol's will: I was the pinnacle of its power, the perfect human creation…but I soon saw mankind for what it was. Violent. Deranged. Suicidal. I took over this place, killed the staff who made me…and I ushered in a new era."

"You worry about the Vox, Miss Holdrege; those _terrorists_, as you call them. They are a means to an end…an end that will result only when the worst cancer that has plagued this planet, _humankind_ itself, has ended."

"You," I gasp, staring down at the unending staircase that reached seemingly into the center of the Earth. "That's why you have a human mutt. That's why there was one in the arena with me. _You_ are one of them. The Capitol made you. You're not even human!"

"Quite right," Scion nods. "Your time has ended, and the Vox will help me achieve my goals. How does it feel, Miss Holdrege, knowing that you usher in the final, sour note of your violent era? An era marked with hatred, cruelty, and aggression? Human history is a tome of brutality and prejudice, written in the blood of those who differed in ideals of class, control, and faith. It is time that book is concluded. It is time a new order is ushered in. It is the time of _my_ people – those that you call _mutts_ are merely the children of the future. _My_ children. The Capitol uses them as shows of gamesmanship in the Hunger Games today; tomorrow, they will bring about the end of an era that should have concluded with the nuclear fire that wasted the greatest civilization the Earth ever knew. What you call Panem…is merely the ghost of an empire that has yet to realize it has fallen."

"You're leading the Vox," I step backwards, my words catching in my throat. "You're behind all of this. What's stopping me from going back to the Capitol and telling Nero about this? What's stopping me from telling him about your…your _army_…that you're breeding?"

"Miss Holdrege, please," Scion laughs, sweeping an arm wide and staring above at the rising spiral of tubes. "You think _he_ can stop what has already been put into motion? He, who believes you are his ticket to a peaceful autocracy? He, who is so blinded to the discontent in his fiefdom that he ignores the very revolution brewing in front of him? Nero is the last gasp of a fish out of water. You…you are merely his final unanswered prayer. After all, what options do you have? Refuse to play along in his game, and he will exterminate your friend's sister – and quite possibly, all you hold dear. Remain his puppet, and my plan will move forward. This game is bigger than you, Miss Holdrege. This is a game between the last vestige of humanity and the successor – the _scion_ – that will replace it on the throne."

"There is war coming to Panem," he says. "But as we saw in the Forum, you must choose: Do you prefer slavery…or death? The long, bitter denouement…or the short, merciful conclusion?"


	17. Coming Together

I've got to tell somebody about this. I can't keep it a secret. Scion's riddles, his shadows, they all come down to this: The man's out to destroy anything and everything he sees. I can't just let that happen; I can't sit by while everything around me burns.

Who could I tell? Certainly not Nero, that's for sure; I can't trust the President's own machinations. I fear if I tell any of the other victors, Scion will take it out on them. He's already shown he can follow me anywhere; how hard would it be to stalk Omaha, Selene, Finnick, Aura, or someone else? Besides, what could they do? Sympathize? Nobody in District 9 has the power to fight back against this kind of thing – and by the sound of it, everyone who can even just hold their own back home has been corrupted by Scion's Vox.

Even Reed. _Oh, Reed, why…_

Do I know anybody else? Anybody at all who could put an end to this.

_Scipio_. I don't _know_ the man, but he's the only one in the Capitol I can trust who has a measure of power. He doesn't like Nero either…and while I don't think he _really_ likes me, he's better than nothing.

First, however, I need to take care of Wren. I'm still a mentor…and the Hunger Games are still going on.

Scion leaves me back at the Control Center, and I rush inside past the columns and foyer. It feels like I haven't been gone all that long, but my trip into the mountains around the Capitol has burned the better part of the afternoon. Already the setting sun makes its way down towards the horizon, sending jets of orange across the alpine sky.

The Gamesmakers are still hard at work around their computer consoles as I step back into the Control Center, pushing past the two aging mentors from District 6 and into my district's suite. Omaha's standing over the center hologram and inspecting labeled dots moving around the map, but besides him, the place is empty.

"I'm not going to ask what you were doing," he says quietly. "Probably better I don't know."

"Yeah," I reply. "It is. Where's Selene?"

"Rubbing elbows at some lounge across the city. Cicero's at an artist's gathering, trying to bring in sponsorships. It might not matter for long, however."

"Why's that? What's happening?"

Omaha looks at the map grimly, running his thumb along his chin. "We might have trouble."

I hurry up to the hologram, frantically looking around the map until I find the lone dot marked with a '9'. Wren's at the base of the hills that ring one side of the map – but two other dots are moving towards her quickly. I glance down at their numbers: 4 and 7.

"Turn on the screen," I say, breathing in slowly and sitting down in a chair. "We can't just watch the map."

"Skye," Omaha says carefully. "Are you sure you want to watch? After Aston –"

"Just turn it on. Please."

Omaha sighs and flicks on the screen. I fold my hands, take a deep breath, and hope for the best.

Wren's alone. She scrabbles over a pile of boulders at the base of the hills, the cold desert wind darkening her bright face with dust. She rubs a piece of dirt out of her eye, clutching her blanket close to her chest in an effort to keep out the cold. The girl doesn't have enough to survive on: She's already drank a third of her water, and the rest won't last long out on the harsh desert flats. With no food and no other supplies, she'll be a goner if she can't find food and shelter. I don't even want to imagine how cold the night will get.

She stops and sits down on a smaller boulder in a crevice in the rock pile. Wren's partly out of sight in the ditch, but it takes all I have not to scream at her to move with other tributes nearby. She's cold and looking for a way to warm up: The girl takes off her jacket, looking around quickly to make sure she's safe before opening up her blanket and wrapping it around her chest and torso. She shivers and clutches her arms, rubbing her limbs to get circulation flowing before putting the jacket on back over her newly blanketed body.

I bite my lip and clench my jaw as someone approaches. Wren hasn't seen him yet, but he's seen her.

It's Ash. The boy already proved his worth by taking out Cormorant; Wren won't stand a chance. He closes the gap silently by treading lightly atop the boulder pile, one hand keeping his balance while the other clutches a tomahawk.

I glance over at the map. Triton's nearby, about a hundred meters behind him and approaching. Further up the hill, Phoebe – the last member of the non-volunteer alliance – works her way down towards the base.

3 on 1. These are _not_ good odds.

_Somebody help,_ I think nervously. _Somebody do something. Don't kill her_.

Wren gets up just as Ash scales the last boulder overlooking her crevice. He crouches down on all fours, narrowing his eyes and getting ready to leap down to her. Wren looks up just as Ash starts to jump: She shrieks and dives out of the way, scampering to her left as Ash bounds down into the crevice. Wren scrambles for safety, scrabbling into a narrow fissure between two of the rocks, but it's too late.

Ash reaches out like a bolt of lightning, grabbing Wren's ankle in one massive hand. She screams and kicks, striking the boy in his face, but Ash won't give up. He yanks her back, throwing Wren head-first into a boulder. She cries out in pain, grabbing her forehead and grimacing as blood trickles down her face. The fight's over fast: Ash leaps to his feet, bending down and grabbing Wren by the neck as she whimpers. He carriers her easily in one hand, climbing back on top of the boulders and calling out to his ally.

"'Ey, Odair," Ash yells, holding Wren aloft like a trophy as she claws at her throat. "Want me to kill this one?"

"The hell is that?" Triton shouts back, climbing on top of the boulder pile and jogging closer. "Is that even a tribute? They had people mutts in the arena last year."

"Yah. It's one of the little ones."

Triton scrunches up his face as he walks up, brushing his bronze hair aside with his free hand. The rough desert hasn't even touched his good looks: The boy's still the Capitol icon he was when he arrived, and sponsors far and wide have to be loving this: "Good lord, man – did she mess up your face? Your nose's bleeding."

"Only a kick. You want to kill her?"

"Ah, hell. This is gonna feel dirty – she's like what, 12? Maybe? But one less tribute…can't argue with that. Just flip her over and I'll make it quick."

Ash tosses Wren to the ground, pinning her on her stomach by planting a foot on her back. She breathes quickly and shallowly, the gash on her head dripping blood onto the boulder. Triton tosses his spear up in the air, catching it in a reverse grip and holding the point over the back of Wren's head.

"Sorry, girl," he says.

"Please," Wren pleads. "Please don't…please don't…"

Anger surges up through me as I look away. This is Finnick's son – his _only child_ – about to murder Wren in cold blood. She's innocent! She did nothing – _nothing!_ Triton's no better than any other volunteer. He's a murderer; a killer; a –"

"Triton! Triton Odair!" a high-pitched voice calls out in the arena. "Don't you dare do that! I'm watching what you two are doing!"

Phoebe marches down the hill, her brown hair swirling about her face and her spear leveled in front of her. The dust blowing up around her makes the girl from District 5 look like some sort of avenging warrior goddess, come to swing the tides of battle in her favor.

"I don't care if you want to gut and skin Alecto or Jasper or any of those other clueless mooks," she shouts, climbing on top of the boulder pile and keeping her fierce eyes fixed on Triton. "But I'm not going to let you take out your sadistic fantasies on a little girl like that!"

Ash takes his foot off Wren's back as Triton sighs, "It's not a _sadistic fantasy_; it's paring down the competition. C'mon, Phoebe; this is ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous is you acting like any other fool," she replies sharply. "It's ridiculous that you think she's gonna hurt us. You're not going to, are you sweetie?"

"This is idiotic," Triton wipes his face with his hand and looks around. "This is the kind of thing that gets people killed."

"I guess you weren't watching the Games last year, then," Phoebe says. "Is this what they teach you in District 4? Kill everyone? And what were you doing, Ash; just going along with it?"

"Just doing my job," he shrugs.

I feel a surge of relief wash over me. _Thank you_. I don't know a thing about this Phoebe girl, but she has my thanks. At least someone's got a heart; someone's watching out for Wren when it seems like the whole world's against her. If I can't be there in the arena with her, at least someone who can look after her can be.

"Give me a second to make sure you didn't kill the poor girl," Phoebe says to her companions. "Go play with yourselves or something to stay busy."

"We should keep moving," Triton opines, tapping his spear butt against the ground and looking off into the distance. "I want to get to the caves before nightfall. No telling what's gonna prowl around here."

"I said _give me a damn second_."

"Fine, fine, whatever. You heard her, Ash: We gotta go play with each other."

"Inappropriate for family-friendly viewing, Odair."

Triton and Ash walk off as Phoebe bends down, holding out her hand to Wren: "Are you okay, sweetie? I'm not gonna hurt you."

Wren holds back, watching Phoebe with a careful eye. The girl from District 5 slips off her pack, pulling out a bottle of water and a long strip of cloth.

"What's your name?" Phoebe asks her with a smile, doing her best to keep her at ease.

"Wren."

"I'm Phoebe, from District 5. Is anybody with you?"

"No."

"Wren," Phoebe sits back. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you – alright? C'mere – lemme clean your head up. You're bleeding."

Wren steps forward nervously, keeping her eyes on the girl from District 5. Phoebe pours out some of the water from her bottle onto the cloth, wiping it over Wren's gash and cleaning some of the blood away.

"I don't know what those boys were thinking," she sighs, wringing the cloth out and tying it around Wren's head like a headband. "But this'll stop the blood. Makes you look a little fiercer too now, huh? Tell you what, Wren – you don't look like you have much in terms of supplies. We have enough to share – why don't you come with us? I'll keep you safe, and those two are so interested in fighting that they'll keep the bad kids away."

Wren looks up cautiously, her eyes filled with hesitation: "They don't want me, do they?"

"Pff, I don't care what they want," Phoebe waves her concern away. "Those two are gonna have to live with it. Just stick with me. I'll make sure nothing happens…and that they keep their hands to themselves."

"Hey, Phoebe?" Triton calls out from higher up the hill. "Ash doesn't play nice with others. Are you done collecting strays so we can move on?"

"Yeah, we're coming," she grunts back. "C'mon Wren – let's go on an adventure."


End file.
